


Alethiometrist's Silver

by LucyCrewe11 (Raphaela_Crowley)



Series: The Golden Compass / Narnia Fusion Set [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Has a plot except when it doesn't, POV Lucy Pevensie, Pevensies aren't all related, Romance, Sort of Follow His Dark Materials Except when it doesn't, Written a long time ago, sequels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 122,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/LucyCrewe11
Summary: Edmund and Lucy continue their fight against the Ruling Powers.(Honest summary: just 33 more chapters, and one deleted scene, of angst for the Narnia and Golden Compass characters for no conceivable reason)
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie/Lucy Pevensie, Lyra Belacqua/Billy Costa, Peter Pevensie/Susan Pevensie, Serafina Pekkala/Coram Van Texel
Series: The Golden Compass / Narnia Fusion Set [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911826
Kudos: 11





	1. The Alethiometrist's Assistant

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2010.
> 
> Sequel to the Silver Pocket Watch.

The shopkeeper's sleek dark gray cat dæmon with the copper-coloured, bronze-flecked eyes, balancing gracefully on the very edge of the glass-front-display countertop, yawned widely, flicked her tail in a rather aimless manner, and briefly shifted her gaze over to the snowy-owl dæmon.

The owl was perched on the left shoulder of her human, a dark-headed boy with a face that while-to his secret dismay-was steadfastly youngish, had a sort of wisdom about it in appearance all the same. Perhaps the fact that his dæmon was an owl of all creatures assisted this bold effect somewhat.

His name was Edmund Belacqua; his dæmon's, Eleanor Glimfeather-Ella, for short. Once, a very long time ago, in what felt to him like another life, one quite separate from the one he now lived and the one he'd been living in the much more recent past, his name had been Edmund Coulter-after his father, who was dead. His mother, the former unfaithful Mrs. Coulter, was dead, too; for a little over two years now.

Anyway, as Edmund stared down at a circular, glittering object that the shopkeeper believed to be made of brass mixed with some sort of high-quality tin but was really made of gold inlaid with silver, he thought: _T_ _hat cannot be what I think it is_ _._

It looked, to anyone who didn't know better, like an over-sized pocket-watch or a compass; but Edmund, despite the fact that it was closed up and so he couldn't be certain, exactly, at the moment, suspected it was something far more valuable. An alehtiometer.

If it _was_ an alehtiometer, however, why hadn't the shopkeeper at least noticed, even if he didn't know anything about truth-measures, how usual an object it was? If it was an alethiometer, it wouldn't have numbers or directions inside, it would, depending on its kind, have foreign letters or else pictures all round the edge.

Edmund noticed that the shopkeeper did squint a lot. His dæmon, too, though she looked directly at Ella, didn't seem to be taking in quite as much as she could. This man and his dæmon were both quiet, demure, and probably fairly short-sighted as well.

"May I see that?" asked Edmund, pointing down at the glimmering object under the glass. Ella clanked her beak and fixed her bright glowing eyes on the object her master has inquired about.

"Certainly," said the shopkeeper as his dæmon hopped down so that he could lift up the glass.

Edmund was correct in guessing that the man's eye-sight was a bit lacking, for he had to point at the object twice more before the shopkeeper handed him the right one.

"It's nice," Edmund reported absently, knowing the shopkeeper wanted him to say something regarding the object as he studied it.

It was slightly heavier than it looked. When opened, the crystal face, covering over a mix of pictures and letters, the likes of which were breathtaking for someone in Ed's particular line of work, gleamed as bright as a diamond-or a star. It _was_ the cool, smooth feel of real gold that rested in his hands, and the silver his fingers ran over as his eyes widened, never straying from the inside symbols (the truly important part), was untarnished.

Repressing an amazed squawk that was building up in her throat, Ella dug part of her claws through her human's over-coat, piercing his skin ever so slightly. It didn't really hurt, it just felt to Edmund as if he'd merely dug his own fingernails into the flesh of his arm for some reason or other. And even if it had stung, he would have been too enthralled with the alethiometer to notice.

How had something this valuable been hidden in plain sight for…for who knew how long? It was a wonder, a true marvel, that the Ruling Powers had not found it, taken it, and destroyed it.

Could he be wrong, he wondered, was it not an alethiometer after all? It certainly looked and felt the part-he was pretty much convinced; but, then, why hadn't it been found before now? Where had it come from?

"If you don't mind my asking, where did you get this?" Edmund did his best to address the question in as 'merely curious' a tone as he could muster up, still sounding a bit breathless for all his pains.

The shopkeeper shrugged his shoulders. "I think that compass came from the far north-someplace where they use different sorts of symbols to tell directions apart than we do. Must be pretty old, too, I'd presume. Probably out of date; but a lovely antique…"

So he _does_ think it's a compass, Edmund realized, hoping the anxious way his dæmon was ruffling her white feathers and clenching her beak tighter together than need be wouldn't give away his own true knowledge regarding this 'compass made of brass'.

"Very fine brass," the shopkeeper went on, neither he nor his cat-dæmon seeming to notice anything odd about their current potential customer. Working in a store, one meets all sorts of eccentrics from time to time, and, in comparison, Edmund Belacqua was quite normal-aside from being a bit jumpy. "In truth, amongst the brightest of brass I've seen." He squinted again, harmlessly.

Ella and her human exchanged a glance. Then, from the snowy-owl, "How much do you want for it?"

"An antique collector, then, are you, my boy?"

At sixteen, being of quite an independent, grave nature, Edmund did not appreciate being called 'boy', but he was fairly accustomed to it when it came to some elderly, or else borderline-elderly, persons. At least it was better than, 'my little man'; one really had to draw the line _somewhere_!

"Something like that," said Edmund, not exactly lying. It wasn't as if he could say, "Well, not exactly, I'm, well, an alethiometrist"; not if he didn't want his bottom hauled off to prison by the Ruling Powers, he couldn't.

"Very fine brass, like I said…"

Edmund exhaled, pretending to be exasperated, when, actually, it was a breath of deep relief.

He didn't exactly have a fortune to his name. Becoming a Belacqua had ended up meaning forgoing any rights to being born into the Coulter family; this, unfortunately, included the family's money, his half of the would-be inheritance.

Susan, his elder sister, also had another surname now-mostly through marriage, though she'd changed it unofficially before that, choosing the name because of an (at the time) lost romantic attachment to the man who was now her husband. At any rate, she wasn't able to collect her half of the inheritance, either, having gone into another world; the one her husband was originally born into.

So as far as Edmund knew, any money his dead parents had put aside was still resting in a trust someplace. He couldn't very well claim it, even if he had kept his old surname, with the Ruling Powers at his heels like bitch hounds in heat. If things had been complicated two years ago, they were even more so now.

Because of this, and his lack of riches, he was relieved that the shopkeeper did not know the object to be made of real gold. He felt a little bad 'cheating' the poor chap, so to speak, when he knew what it was really made of, but what choice did he have? He couldn't very well afford to do the so-called 'honourable' thing, telling the shopkeeper it was real gold and silver and then stroll out empty-handed. If he did that, it was only a matter of time before the Ruling Powers discovered it here; a real-as-corn alethiometer could not remain a secret for very long. It would be considered a contraption of the heretics and taken away.

Yes, this was the only thing to do. The _right_ thing, even. Ella let out a low bird-whistle.

The rest of the conversation was carried out in low-voices, as it was usually considered bad manners to discuss payment in detail with a loud tone, and finally, it was settled. The 'compass' was bought and paid for, and both shopkeeper and customer were satisfied.

"Should we wrap it up for you, dear?" asked the shopkeeper's dæmon.

Edmund nodded; and the shopkeeper pulled out a bolt of cotton, wrapped it twice around the 'compass', and then tied it with string. This took three tries, and in the end it was still too loose and Edmund had to tighten the knots for him.

He was just slipping the alethiometer into his greatcoat pocket when the bells on the door jingled and a brown-haired girl in a rich, burgundy coat stumbled over the threshold, her arms full of parcels. At her side, trotted her little mouse dæmon about the size of a cat wearing a golden band with a red feather in it around one of his soft pale-brown (almost tan) ears.

"Edmund," she said, a little tersely; "you're supposed to be helping me with the groceries."

The shopkeeper smiled at her, grinning at Edmund in an idiotic, 'well, somebody's in trouble…' sort of way.

"Oh, um, Sir, this is my…um…" He always had something of a difficulty introducing Lucy Pevensie and Reepicheep.

The problem was largely that people, especially nosy ones, tended to assume a lot of things when they saw two young persons who clearly traveled together and spent innumerable hours together and yet, were not related, nor married. Only when he was out-right lying, could he say they were married; because, quite frankly, even though he-more often than not-rather wished they were, they weren't. And he couldn't say 'we live together' either, because everybody had such dirty minds now-a-days and might assume they slept together, which they didn't. He could say-and with complete honestly, too-that they were partners in his work. Indeed, Lucy's skill (and the fact that she had her own alethiometer, an older, silver one given to her by a professor with a robin dæmon a long while back), had been of inexpressible help to him over the past couple of years-he didn't know what he would have possibly done without her…and her company. But, then, that brought the problem round full-circle; he couldn't freely tell anyone he was an alethiometrist.

Lucy, ever the innocent-minded one of the pair, never had any problems saying that he was her boyfriend, and had endured (poor girl) countless hard stares from spinster ladies who 'disapproved'. She did not understand their bitterness or why Edmund always went red in the face when confronted with their prudish glowers. Finally, quite recently, Edmund had broken down and had 'a talk' with Lucy regarding this and she'd stared at him, her mouth agape. The only thing she'd appeared able to do for several minutes was stammer out, "They think we do... _that_?"

Anyway, he finally settled on, for the moment, "This is Lucy and Reep", relying on the low-interest factor between a seller and buyer once a transaction was completed to keep the man and his dæmon from asking questions.

"Come on, Lu, let's go." Edmund waved goodbye to the shopkeeper who waved back politely before turning round and looking for the broom to sweep behind the counters while his dæmon licked her left forepaw and started cleaning her face with a surprising level of vigor for such a mellow-looking creature. "We don't want to be too late getting back."

Glancing up from his broom and dustbin, the shopkeeper said something that sounded like, "Have a nice day, squirt."

" _Squirt_?" echoed Edmund in disbelief when they were out of the store's ear-shot and headed towards the bicycle they'd parked by an old oak tree several hours earlier. Under his breath, only so that Lucy could hear, he muttered, "I'm an alethiometrist! Just how old does the man think I am?"

"He did squint an awful lot," Ella pointed out, flapping her wings for emphasis. "It's a miracle he didn't think I was a dove!"

"I suppose you're right."

"Do you have any idea what time it is, Ed?" Lucy asked him flat out when he was finished chatting with his dæmon, placing the majority of the food-parcels into a straw basket on the handlebars. "I thought you were going to meet me an hour ago to help me carry these."

Reepicheep's eyes flashed accusingly at Ella as he climbed up his human's arm and gripped the side of her shoulder.

If Reepicheep had still been able to change shape, he would have shifted into a flying creature so that it would have been easier to get direct eye-contact. However, Lucy had been through puberty, almost in its entirety, and while she'd retained a sense of innocence most fourteen year old girls did not possess, she had been unable to keep her dæmon from settling into a permanent form. It wasn't at all surprising, though, that he'd settled as his most commonly-used shape, the mouse with a golden band; for a while, he'd gone between that and only one other shape, a red panda, but he could no longer change even that much. He was a full-time mouse dæmon now, and despite the fact that at times Lucy missed the days when Reep had been able to change into whatever he liked, in the same way a person in a world without visible dæmons misses their childhood when they wake up to find suddenly that they are full-fledged teenagers in the flesh, there was something oddly fulfilling about knowing what Reepicheep would look like every morning when she awoke. It was almost like, through growing up, she'd come to know herself a little better.

"I'm sorry, Lucy," Edmund whispered, glancing both ways quickly. "I found something…" His eyes widened, letting her in on the secret that it was something very important.

"What is it?"

"I'll show you when we get back home." He tied one of the parcels unable to fit into the basket to the back of the bicycle with a strong piece of string.

'Home', by the way, at that particular point in time, was a small flat Edmund was paying rent for them to stay in by doing odd-jobs for the weak-boned, whisker-faced landlord with a shrewd-looking bandicoot dæmon. Of course he didn't know how much longer he and Lucy would be able to stay there safely, but he hoped they still had a little time as it wasn't a bad place compared to some of the others. Sometimes, when they'd been very bad (of course, they hadn't stayed in those places for any extended amounts of time) Edmund had stayed up at night with his eyes wide open, wondering what Lucy's brother, his sister's husband, would think of his precious baby sister sleeping in a damp, overtly unhygienic room and would feel horribly guilty. He and Peter both wanted something better for Lucy. In this, the two young men would have been in perfect agreement.

Edmund climbed onto the bicycle and Lucy got on behind him, holding onto his waist as he started pedaling. It was a fairly nice ride, all things considered, mostly downhill, and there were lots of pretty trees all with yellow, red, and orange leaves that had not yet fallen and looked rather like large October-coloured rainbows.

They came to a stop at a small creek, over which, there was a sturdy but rickety-sounding plank-wood bridge with a low maple-wood railing on either side to secure it.

It was not the bridge itself that made Edmund stop and Lucy jolt forward, pressing just slightly into his back for a second to keep from falling off, rather, it was a middle-aged man with a blue cap on his head standing at the bridge's start with a serious-albeit a little bored-expression on his face. His dæmon was a handsome white-and-gray mare with a cream-coloured mane. She stood a little ways off from her human, lightly rubbing her left back hoof on the lower part of the trunk of the nearest tree.

"Hallo, there's been a new toll placed on this bridge," the man informed them. "Effective today."

"You have got to be joking," Edmund grumped. "This isn't exactly an ocean, I could jump from one side to the other without much difficulty-dash it!"

"It's only a _little_ toll," the man said, as if that made all the difference.

Sighing, Edmund pulled some money out of his pocket and handed it to the man.

"All right," he said, handing back the change once he'd taken the proper amount out, "that's all set, then. Now about papers."

"What papers?" Lucy asked; Reepicheep leaned forward curiously.

"Oh, just general identification and such," he explained. "It's part of the new official laws passed in these parts. Can't let you by until we're sure of who you are-so many heretics and dangerous criminals on the loose these days. They never did find Lord Asriel, you know."

"Never heard of him," Edmund lied quickly. "But, seriously, do we _look_ like criminals?"

"No," the man admited, "but I'm afraid it's just standard now, can't be helped."

"Fine." Edmund took out some fake identification papers. They were actually mostly accurate; well, except for the fact that it said Lucy's surname was Barfield (just to be on the safe side, should anyone ever come looking for her) and, oh yeah, that he-Edmund Belacqua-was, in fact, eighteen years old.

The man puzzled over these for a moment. Everything appeared to be in order…except…well…

"Are you sure you're eighteen?"

"Why?" asked Edmund, raising his dark eyebrows up at this 'misunderstanding'. "Do I look older?"

Lucy bit onto her lower lip; this was serious, so she knew she shouldn't laugh. Still, it was hard. At least Edmund had gotten a little better at replying to this ghastly question. The time before the last, he'd started going off randomly about politics in an attempt to sound 'grown-up' until Ella's beak clamped on his earlobe-it caused them both pain, but at least it got Edmund to stop while he was ahead.

"No, you look younger." The man didn't beat around the bush.

"Well, I can't help that," said Edmund dryly, struggling to keep a faint tremor out of his voice.

Though reluctantly, the man finally let them pass because the papers looked legal and it wasn't really his job to intervene unless they didn't. Besides, they'd already paid the toll; he was just holding them up now.

When they finally reached the long gravel stretch that surrounded the building the flat was located in, Edmund felt his racing heart slow down without even having realized it was beating like a drum since they'd crossed the bridge. Lucy noticed his anxiety (Reepicheep sensed it through Ella), but had chosen to say nothing.

There was a long climb up three sets of backstairs, carrying the heavy groceries, before they reached the doorway of their flat. Edmund always secretly half-expected to come home one day to find the place ransacked and felt a rush of gratefulness pulse through his veins each time it was not, each time they returned to find everything just as they left it.

The flat had four rooms. There was the largest one, which was the first one walked into upon entry; it was simple with faded tan-coloured walls and a small fireplace that could only hold a fire of pinecones and very, very small woodchips at best, but it was neat-and reasonably warm when the grate, newspaper, pinecones, and matches decided to cooperate. Then there was a walkway so narrow that if Edmund or Lucy had been even remotely fat they would have had to go through it side-ways leading to the other three rooms; a tiny washroom with a tin tub just barely big enough to bathe in (they had to keep chamber-pots under their beds), and then two snug bedrooms-one for each of them.

Once, Lucy had offered to share a bedroom with Edmund so that he could use the other one as his study to make his work a little easier. After he explained why people looked at them funny when they found out they lived together, she never made that suggestion again. The main room with the mini-fireplace and the table where they ate would have to do for the alethiometrist's study after all.

Reaching into the part of his greatcoat pocket he had concealed that day's purchase in, Edmund pulled out the cloth-wrapped alethiometer and set it down on the table.

"What's that?" Lucy reached down and, knowing he wouldn't mind, plucked at the strings, pulling them away from the cloth. Reepicheep climbed up onto the table and watched as his mistress peeled the cloth away and let out an, "Ooh!" of delighted surprise.

"The shopkeeper didn't know what it was."

Lucy took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Around her waist she had a leather pouch, and inside the pouch was her silver alethiometer. It was as much of a beauty as it had ever been. Although it was an older version of the truth-measuring tool and thus, for many, was harder to interpret, it was lovingly carved and intricately designed; its moon-coloured gemstone as bright as ever. Any alethiometrist with taste and passion would have reacted to it as a seaman would react to an old Viking ship, however out of date it was, remarking that it was a 'lady' of its kind.

Up till now, Lucy's silver gift had been the only alethiometer they had. Lyra Silvertongue, who as the product of a love affair between Marisa Coulter and Lord Asriel was the half-sister of both Edmund and Lucy, happened to have an newer example; a golden 'modern' alethiometer; but she'd gone into another world two years ago-the same one Lord Asriel had disappeared into-taking the 'golden compass' with her. They had not heard from the girl and her dæmon, Pantalaimon, since then. And while they missed her (and Peter and Susan, too), life had to go on.

They'd had _models_ of alethiometers, of course, to assist Edmund in his studies-and owning these was nearly as dangerous as owning a real alethiometer since any movement in that particular field was considered an abominable crime and utter heresy by the Ruling Powers. Also, they had the book; the leather bound tome Susan had brought with her from Norroway when she came to Jordan Collage and married Peter. The book was the most useful tool for Edmund when it came to the reading of alethiometers. Unlike Lucy, he could not read it simply by instinct, and it had taken pain-staking research and endless efforts for him to master the meanings of the various symbols. Harder still were the letters in Lucy's alethiometer. But he pressed on so that in a little over two years, he had accomplished more than most men do in a whole lifetime.

While Lucy compared her alethiometer to the new one they now had, Edmund lifted the floorboards next to the practically non-existent hearth; under there, he kept the book. When he had retrieved it, he set it on the table.

Ella nudged Reepicheep so that Edmund could get Lucy's attention.

"Lu, mind if I take a look at that?" He motioned down at the alethiometer. "I didn't get to examine it for as long as I wanted to in the shop. Once I'd paid for it, the next step was to hide it-to be safe."

Lucy handed it to him, pulling the book towards herself. Quickly, she blew off the layer of dust that always seemed to gather on the book's cover because of the untidy places she and Ed were always forced to hide it in. Then she opened it and was going through some of the different passages about alethiometers and dust and Aslan the great Lion (lingering the longest on those sections) while Edmund kept on examining the alethiometer in silence.

They had long ago fallen into a sort of peaceful rhythm; and sometimes Lucy felt so relaxed and low-key in Edmund's familiar presence that it was almost-to her-as if he and Ella were as much a part of her as her soul, her Reepicheep.

After a while, as the room started to get darker and they knew they would sooner rather than later have to begin lighting the lamps for the night, they began to stand closer together. Occasionally his hand would brush against hers or she would rest her head on the side of his arm, causing Ella to ruffle her feathers contentedly.

Their faces turned so that their eyes met. Edmund leaned forward and tenderly pressed his lips against Lucy's.

Their displays of affection were not constant, usually. For one thing, they were often very busy with all the work they had to do and simply didn't have as much time to be lovey-dovey and sit around mooning about each other as they might have liked. For another, Edmund rather saw to it that they generally took it easy as far as expressions of physical affection went; it wasn't that he didn't like kissing her or slipping his arms round her waist, holding her as close to him as he dared (on the contrary, he was very fond of it-to put it lightly), he simply felt the need for them to be careful.

He knew that with all the current complications of their lives there were not going to be 'wedding bells' for them any time soon-and that, in turn, made it a little awkward living alone with the girl he had strong feelings for. He loved her more, probably, even than he realized, as it was Lucy's well-being that concerned him more than anything else in the matter. He was aware (he would have had to be a complete dolt not to be after all the time they spent together) that Lucy was an innocent. The last thing he wanted to do was go and ruin that. Such being the case, he had no intention of letting the two of them become lovers. There may have been a few clean kisses here and there, reminiscent of the first one they'd shared-she'd been only twelve then and they had both had strawberry stains on their mouths. But it never got any further than that-he made sure of it.

They broke apart. Lucy blushed and bit onto her lower lip as she turned her attention back to the book. Edmund pretended to be fascinated with the alethiometer he still held in his hands, but he wasn't really thinking about what he was looking at.

Suddenly there came a horrible din, a clamor. It was coming from the stairwell leading up to their flat. Somewhat muffled but with fair distinction all the same, Edmund heard the frantic, flustered voice of the landlord talking some somebody. Then, "We represent the Ruling Powers, we have reason to believe there is a heretical criminal under this roof, let us pass at once or we will forcibly move you out of the way."

Oh God, thought Edmund.

What was going to happen? The Ruling Powers had closed in on them! They'd arrest him for sure-the fact that he was an alethiometrist was reason enough for them.

He didn't have time to mull over how they could have possibly found him; he had to do something, and fast. There was nothing to be done for himself-indeed, his own safety was the furthest thing from his mind-it was Lucy he worried for. What would they do to her as his assistant? Would they harm her in some way? By the Lion, what if they found out that she was Lord Asriel's daughter? For goodness sake, they might kill her!

His head whirling, not completely in his senses, Edmund latched onto Lucy's arm with a tighter, far more forceful grip than he'd ever used on her before. Ella swooped down and snatched up Reepicheep in her claws; he was a bit too heavy for her, but with the adrenaline pumping through her she could manage.

"Edmund, what are you doing?" Lucy whisper-cried.

In the corner of his bedroom, taking up too much space, there was a wardrobe that had come with the flat when they rented it. The wardrobe actually, though one couldn't tell just from looking at it, extended into the floor. When the wardrobe's cedar-wood door was opened, there was a trap-door under the bottom of it that lifted up.

Edmund wasted no time in lifting it and more or less flinging Lucy down into it. Ella dropped Reepicheep into his mistress's lap.

"And we're hiding in a wardrobe… _again_ …" Reepicheep muttered, shaking his furry little head.

"Edmund, come on," whispered Lucy, thinking he was coming down into the trap-door, too.

Tears sprung up into his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucy, it won't fit us both."

"What do you mean-" Lucy began as Edmund, without so much as a goodbye, dropped the two alethiometers into her lap beside Reepicheep and slammed the trap-door down over her head, locking her in. "Edmund!" She pounded her fist against the floor above her.

"They've gone mad," Reepicheep gasped, sniffing at one of few cracks above them.

Lucy started crying; she knew now what had really just happened. Edmund had just risked his own life to safe hers, hiding her before the Ruling Powers arrived.

The voices were in the same room as the wardrobe now, Lucy could hear them above her. The guards and their dæmons were saying something fierce-sounding. There were sounds of fighting. Shouting. Things breaking. Then, a cry of pain that Lucy was fairly certain had come from Edmund. They'd got him. The Ruling Powers had gotten Edmund!

Her heart beat wildly. Shaking, Lucy tried once again to lift up the trap-door, but it was no use; Edmund had shut it tight.

Would they hear her, she wondered, would the guard's dæmons sense Reepicheep and be able to tell their masters that there was someone else in the room, too, hiding?

Apparently not, because after a while it became dead-silent. Perhaps it was the cedar-wood, as that was said to have something of a sleepy-effect on dæmons, or perhaps no one had looked for her because they expected Edmund to be alone. Either way, it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting out now. She had to plan her next step-probably rescuing Edmund. And she couldn't do that from the inside of a trap-door.

She had her dagger on her; the one Ma Costa gave her a long time ago with her dæmon's name on it. It had been in her skirt-pocket when Edmund hid her. Nothing else for it, Lucy reached up and tried to loosen the hold of the cracks in the door above her. It took many hours, but she got herself free in the end.

She took up with her the two alethiometers, her dagger, and a dwarf-sword she found in the corner of the wardrobe upon her escape (Lucy hadn't the foggiest idea who's it had been or why it was there, but she took it with her anyway, thinking it might come in useful sometime).

Walking around the flat, Lucy gaped, taking in everything in a muddled, daze-like state. It was a little passed dawn-a whole night had gone by-and there was morning light coming in through the windows.

"Edmund?" she called, her voice trembling as she swallowed back tears. "Edmund?"

"He's not here, you know they took him," said Reepicheep.

"I know," said Lucy. "I just don't want to believe it."

There were signs of a struggle all over the place; the table was over-turned, the book was gone, small objects were spread out on the floor in a mess, and all of the groceries from the day before were spilled out everywhere. There were even broken eggs dripping down the walls.

"Lucy…" Reepicheep's head turned over to one wall that didn't have egg on it; it had some blood stains instead.

Edmund's blood? Lucy wondered, feeling as if she was going to vomit, hoping desperately that it wasn't.

"What are we going to do, Reep?"


	2. Of Supper and Dust

"Christian Coulter Pevensie!" Susan moan-exclaimed, glancing down at the empty crib where her young toddler-aged son was supposed to be napping; ever since the week before last when he'd somehow taught himself to climb the crib-bars and get onto the floor on the opposite side without falling, bursting into tears, and then giving himself away, the boy had caused her endless troubles.

Maugrim, Susan's gray-wolf dæmon, started sniffing at the ground, picking up the boy's trail. "The blighter went this way, I think." He pointed his nose in the direction leading from the nursery into the hallway.

Together the young, dark-haired woman and her dæmon walked out of the room to look for the boy.

At least, thought Susan, to look on the bright side, Christian hasn't figured out how to open locks yet; and he isn't tall enough to _reach_ any of the locks, besides. So he couldn't have gotten too far.

Indeed, the errant little boy, sound asleep, was being carried back towards his room by a tall, blonde man-his own father, Peter Pevensie.

"I take it you were looking for this?" Peter said by way of greeting, grinning at his wife, motioning down at the snoring child in his arms. "He was on the rug by the front door when I walked in the house."

Susan sighed and kissed her husband on the cheek. Her dæmon let out a doggish yawn; they'd had a long day.

Looking down at her child, in spite of the trouble the twitchy little kid caused her on a daily basis, Susan couldn't help marveling over the wonder that was her 'baby'. She was a motherly person by nature, and though she could be stern when she had to be, she was as sweet and gentle as a proper mum ought to be the rest of the time. Christian never hesitated to come to her when he skinned his knee or to cry for her when he was feeling tired or hungry or lonely. He was unafraid of Maugrim, somehow understanding-without being told-that the great gray wolf was merely a part of his mother and would never harm him.

He was an attractive little child, having inherited his mother's dark hair and pale complexion, as well the blue eyes that were the traits of both of his parents. When he was asleep and Susan couldn't see the colour of his eyes as they were closed, although he had some traits scattered here and there about his face that called to mind Peter more than anyone else (and, like his father, he was born dæmonless), Susan found a striking resemblance also to her younger brother. He did look remarkably similar, she thought, to what Edmund had looked like at that age; also, he looked a great deal like their father, Edmund Coulter the first, as well.

That was where his middle name had come from. It had occurred to Susan one day, rather out of the blue, that there was no one left to carry on her father's name. Edmund was a Belacqua now, and while she understood why he'd chosen that and didn't grudge her brother in the least over his decision, it struck her as a little sad all the same. The first Edmund Coulter had made some mistakes, it was true, horrible mistakes at that, and he'd died a rather unpleasant-almost pathetic-death in the nursery where the two daughters of his wife's lover slept under the watchful eye of the Gyptian woman, Ma Costa; but there were good things, too, that Susan could remember about her father-things her brother had been too young to recall. Coulter would have made a rather rough-sounding first-name, both she and Peter agreed on that, so it was moved to the middle.

His first name had come from a conversation Peter and Susan had had shortly after the baby was born and they'd seen him, all cleaned off, for the first time.

"What about Edgemont?" Susan had suggested in a low-voice.

Peter's nose wrinkled. "Susan, that's awful." No son of his was going to be called ' _Edgemont_ '!

Maugrim growled at Peter, baring his teeth slightly.

"Peace, Maugrim." Peter rested his hand gently on the top of the wolf's head with as little forethought as if he'd simply reached out and lightly touched his wife's hair. "How about William?"

Susan thought it over. "Hmm…William…lots of nicknames there; we'd be able to call him Will, or Bill, or Billy-or…" her voiced trailed off.

Another name popped in Peter's head just then, rather spontaneously, and he suggested it. "…Or Christian?"

A small, contented smile formed on Susan's lips. In an almost dreamy tone she sighed, "Christian" somehow it seemed like just the right name for her son. "I like that." Pensively, she reached for her husband's free hand and squeezed it lightly. "Christian Coulter Pevensie."

Christian was about two years old now. Time was a funny thing, especially when you went from world to world. Peter and Susan didn't know at what pace time was going on in the world they'd left Edmund and Lucy behind in, or in the world Lyra had gone into; they would have been surprised to find that there was only a matter of months difference in the way time had gone by between the worlds since Peter returned to the one he was born into. Time had over-lapped a bit and in some worlds it had slowed down without anyone realizing it, while in others it had seemingly sped up without making it's forward movement known. So all of them, Peter and Susan, Lucy and Edmund, and Lyra, save for those few months of difference between the worlds, had actually only been apart for over two years in all cases. For Lyra, it was the closest to being three.

"How was your day?" Peter asked Susan as he put Christian back into the crib for his nap, knowing that if he waited until the boy woke up and noticed his father was home and was the one who had carried him to the nursery, he wouldn't be at all inclined to going back to sleep.

"All right," said Susan, reaching down into the crib and moving the child's bangs away from his forehead without waking him. "Christian's still climbing out of his crib whenever I turn my back."

"He's getting a bit big for the crib," Peter noted; "perhaps we should look into a real bed for him soon."

"One with a mile-high guard-rail," snorted Maugrim, tossing back his head.

"Any news?" Peter asked, changing the subject and ignoring Maugrim's exasperated comment for the time being.

Susan shook her head. She knew what he meant by 'news'; he meant if she'd heard anything from Lucy or from anyone back in her own world, the one unfortunately dominated by the Ruling Powers. Peter thought that if Lucy, or anyone sent by her, was ever to come to this world looking for him, they would be likely to leave a message at this house, since it was where Lucy had grown up. Indeed, Christian had slept in the same cradle that had been used for both Peter and Lucy by Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie before they discovered the need for a proper crib with bars as far as he was concerned.

"I'm worried about them," said Peter quietly, almost in a whisper. "About Edmund and Lucy, I mean. I've got this feeling that something's not right."

"Peter, we have to accept that we live here," Susan told him practically. "It's no use worrying about that world when we can't get there-it's no good pretending any different."

"I only hope they would be able to get word to us if an emergency came up."

"I miss them, too." Susan sighed heavily. "I had a dream about Edmund last night."

Maugrim shuddered involuntarily. "More like a nightmare," he put in, still shaken from the memory.

"It was a little unsettling," his human had to admit.

In her dream, she had seen her brother bruised-up with a split lip. The place where he was had appeared to be very dark-dank, even. There had been a flash of white, a glimmer, Susan thought when she strained herself over the memory and focused in, of chain-mail, and some sort of animal's (not a dæmon's) bared teeth.

"What I remember the clearest was that sign we caught a half-glimpse of for a passing second in what looked like dim lantern-light." The fur on Maugrim's neck stood up straight for a few moments while he spoke. "The one that said 'Sval'."

"What does 'Sval' mean?" Peter wanted to know.

"Nothing," said Susan with a shrug of her shoulders. "Just some nonsense word in a dream, I suppose."

"It sounds oddly familiar-sort of." Peter's brow crinkled for a moment, feeling reminded, queerly, of a partially-done crossword puzzle with some of the adjourning letters missing. But it was only a dream, so he gave up.

"Peter! Susan!"

Hearing their names called, leaving Christian behind to sleep, Susan and Maugrim and Peter walked out into the hallway, then over to the kitchen where Mrs. Pevensie was cooking something that smelled delightful in a large copper stewpot.

Some young ladies might grump about living with their in-laws, especially their mother-in-law, but Susan rarely ever felt the need to.

For one thing, she felt indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie for helping them out; in this strange new world she knew nothing about, she wasn't sure she and Peter would have made it on their own. After all, Peter was young. He'd wanted to get a job, but there hadn't been very many options because everybody was looking for employment now that the war was pretty much over, so his parents, anxious about his getting an education and not seeing any reason why his having a wife shouldn't allow him to go to university provided of course that he commuted and was home more or less every night, had paid all the necessary school-fees. Because Mrs. Pevensie wanted her to feel involved in the family, Susan had been allowed to see all of the bills, and she knew there was no way Peter would have been able to afford so much as a morning at the university without his parents assistance. This wasn't like back in that other world, where Lord Asriel could just storm in with his snow-leopard dæmon and dump Peter off at Jordan on a full scholarship with less than an eyebrow raise exchanged between himself and the Master of the college.

Also, no one else in this world-apart from Professor Kirke-had a visible dæmon; Susan didn't even want to think about what would happen if anybody figured out that Maugrim wasn't just some over-sized pet that liked to trot along at her side.

For another, Susan was very fond of both of her husband's parents. And, as for Mrs. Pevensie, if the fact that Susan was her son's wife had not given Helen incentive enough to love her, then the knowledge that she had helped Peter pull Mr. Pevensie out of a trench where he'd been left injured, presumed dead, did. The two woman had quickly made friends. And having a grandchild to spoil suited Helen remarkably well, too.

"What are you cooking, Mum?" Peter asked.

"Beef stew."

Maugrim and Susan's stomachs growled in unison.

"Apparently it sounds good," Peter chuckled, winking over at his wife and her dæmon who scowled back at him with faux-scorn for teasing them.

"Oh, and we're having some guests over," Helen added quickly, under her breath.

Peter let out a light moan. He wasn't in the mood for guests; he was tired out from a long day at the university and wanted nothing more than a nice quiet meal with his parents and his wife.

"Who's coming?" Susan asked.

"Oh, my mother, Peter's grandmother, you haven't met her yet." Helen lifted the stewpot's lid and stirred its contents with a big wooden spoon. "She's been living abroad in America since Peter was five. I'm sure you'll get along fine."

" _Only_ Grandma?" Peter asked, hardly daring to believe his luck.

"Oh, and maybe the Smiths."

And that was why he hadn't believed it…

The Smiths were old acquaintances of the family, not exactly _friends_ per-say, but the Pevensies had invited them over upon occasion a few years back. Lucy had not liked them, and truth be told, neither did Peter. One of the children who had grabbed at Reepicheep when Lucy was a small child of no more than six years old, had been from that family. And then there was the eldest daughter, Cynthia, to be reckoned with; as far as Peter was concerned, the very best thing about Cynthia was that she was now in a boarding school in France instead of England.

"I thought the whole family moved to France," Peter said, trying not to sound like a whining five year old. He was, he reminded himself, a grown man with a wife and a child and real life problems after all.

"They're back," Mrs. Pevensie sighed with surprising grimness.

"Not Cynthia, too?"

Mrs. Pevensie nodded.

Peter frowned. "I can't stand her, she has a face like a halibut."

"Peter, that's terrible," said his mother, trying to sound reproachful even though she was holding back a laugh-because Cynthia actually _did_ look sort of like a halibut now that she thought about it. "Wasn't Cynthia a friend of yours when you were very little?"

Peter's brows furrowed. "Mum, Cynthia had frequent arguments with herself…and lost."

"Cynthia's younger siblings were rather little beasts to Lucy, too," Mrs. Pevensie had to admit.

"And don't think I'm likely to forget it, either," Peter put in.

"Scary thing is, I think at one point Mrs. Smith had a possible marriage between you and Cynthia in her head." Helen told him this mostly for her own amusement, knowing his face would recoil in horror. "But luckily, I don't have, as Peter so courteously put it, a halibut for a daughter-in-law." She smiled lovingly at Susan and Maugrim. "I have this lovely daughter instead."

"Thanks, Mum." Susan had taken to calling Mrs. Pevensie 'Mum' almost at once. Her own mother was dead after all, and there was a warmth about Helen that Marisa had never come close to having.

Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang and Peter's grandmother arrived.

She was a very worn-looking lady with a dilapidated colourless shawl hanging over her shoulders; her appearance sort of called to mind the general untidiness of the White Queen from Lewis Carol's _Through The Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_. But her face was kindly and her bright green eyes were friendly enough.

She was delighted to meet Susan, and skipped right passed the hand shaking and whatever remained of formal introductions as soon as she realized the girl with the sort of animal thing at her side-she thought it was a dog, but her eyesight was a bit poor and household pets were the least of her concerns at the moment-was her grandson's wife, and threw her arms around her in a full embrace.

Then, pulling away, Peter's grandmother examined her, stating, "I see he's married well." Right after this, she wanted to see her great-grandchild.

Christian was, by some miracle, still asleep, but they took her into the nursery and she watched him and sighed happily.

"He's such a little angel," Peter's grandmother cooed.

"Only when he's sleeping," Maugrim muttered, forgetting that in front of company he had to avoid speaking altogether. Helen's mother hadn't even known about Lucy and Reepicheep; if she had learned what Maugrim truly was, she wouldn't have understood.

"Who was that?" The startled old lady turned round, looking for the source of the unexpected voice.

"No one, Nanny," Peter said quickly, taking his grandmother by the arm. "Let's go into the dinning room, Mum's made a wonderful stew…"

Things had been going well until the doorbell rang again and Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and the halibut-faced Cynthia, strolled in as if they owned the place.

Hanging her wrap on the coat-hook in the entry-way without even waiting to be politely asked in, Mrs. Smith started off about something to do with some lady in her book-club who's actions were supposedly not up to par.

Helen rubbed her forehead, wishing the Smiths had chosen to stay in France, or, at least, that she'd chosen not to invite them for 'old time's sake'.

Mr. Smith shook Peter's hand with a grip like a vice and started rambling on and on about politics and how he hoped Peter was a sensible man who was planning on joining this or that political party when he was old enough. "You'd make a fine Republican, young man," he told him with a gargoyle grin, even though it wasn't true.

Cynthia butted in, practically beaming at Peter, batting her eyelashes. "Hello, Peter."

"Cynthia." There seemed nothing else nice to be said.

"Oh, it's so nice to see you again." Cynthia batted her eyelashes even more rapidly now.

"Is there something in your eye?" Peter asked flat-out, hoping that would make her stop.

"No, of course not, you silly!" And she reached out and punched him on the arm in a manner that was supposed to be friendly and endearing, possibly flirtatious as well, but really felt more akin to being hit full-force by an angry rugger player.

Ow, thought Peter, trying not to lose his balance from the force of the punch, that is going to leave a mark.

Susan was standing a little ways off, watching the whole exchange with an expression that suggested she was trying not to laugh at his discomfort. Maugrim looked especially strained in this matter.

"Cynthia," said Peter, taking a few steps back and putting his arm around Susan's shoulders, "This is my _wife_ , Susan. Our _son_ is sleeping."

Wife? Son? He was married? Cynthia's shoulders slumped; her parents had told her she might have a shot here-they must have been misinformed. Darn. Perhaps she shouldn't have broken up with her boyfriend when she left France, thinking she would have a better option in England-namely, the Pevensies' son.

"Ah!" screamed Mrs. Smith upon noticing Maugrim. "What the devil is that thing?"

"Good lord," exclaimed Mr. Smith, "what an extraordinary beast!"

"Is it a…a wolf…?" Cynthia's eyes widened.

"No," said Peter hurriedly, exchanging a nervous glance with Susan. "It's…it's an Alsatian."

"Huh?"

"A dog…" Peter explained slowly.

"Bloody big Alsatian," murmured Mr. Smith under his breath, with a shudder.

"Bark. Bark. Bark." It sounded more like Maugrim said the _word_ 'bark' three times as opposed to making the proper sound, and his voice was monotone and bitterly sarcastic. But no one aside from Susan, who, being his human, was able to sense his disgust and aggravation fully, noticed.

Supper was stuffy and awkward. Mr. Pevensie still limped a little because of the injuries he'd gotten fighting in the war although he was mostly healed; and when Mr. Smith's first remark upon seeing his unsteady gait was, "Blimey, you can't walk, mate!" Peter had to repress the urge to reach over and smack their guest by clutching the side of the table for a few minutes until he calmed down. What was it about the Smiths that just got so deep under his skin?

Everything Mrs. Smith said fell under the category of 'ode to Cynthia'. She bragged about her daughter incessantly. Apparently Cynthia was not only top of her class, but she also was very brave and saved babies and puppies from burning buildings.

"You know," said Mrs. Smith, prattling on, "Cynthia is a very sophisticated young lady, wonderfully proper."

"Fascinating," said Mr. Pevensie as though it were anything but, and re-filled his wineglass.

"It's such a pity the sort of girls good, perfectly lovely men have to settle for these days." Mrs. Smith clicked her tongue. "I mean, take your son for example."

"Excuse me?" Susan blurted, realizing the forthcoming insult was directed at her.

"Well he may not be of a high-class himself, but he could have had someone with ambition and grace. Instead, he ends up with some wench no one's ever heard of who owns a very large dog."

Maugrim let out a low growl.

"You will refrain from talking about my wife in that unseemly manner or I will show you the door," Peter hissed at them. He reached under the table and squeezed Susan's hand.

"I was just making conversation," huffed Mrs. Smith.

Susan was suddenly compelled to say something absolutely shocking to Mrs. Smith just to rattle her up a bit; this sort of impulsiveness was not usually in her nature, but she was tired and upset at the moment and she could feel Maugrim's rage bubbling up inside of the pit of her own stomach.

"To be honest, Mrs. Smith, I've been called worse than 'wench'." Mr. Pevensie poured Susan a glass of wine and she thanked him before going on. Taking a demure sip, sending a cutting glance over in the general direction of the Smiths and their daughter, she added, "My own mother once called me a whore. If you mean to cause me permanent, scaring offence, you will simply have to try a little harder. Your proceeding remark got everybody all worked up for the punch line, and I fear you've disappointed them dreadfully. It's frightfully hard to top 'whore'."

Mrs. Smith looked mortified. Cynthia wasn't smiling anymore. Mr. Smith was pretending to be fixated on his bowl of beef-stew. Taking them in, Susan felt an odd mix of utter embarrassment for having said something like that at the table-even it was out of anger, exasperation, and being overly tired-and an odd sense of satisfaction for showing them she wasn't going to sit around crying because they didn't approve of her. They weren't the first people to disapprove of her, and she was certain they weren't going to be the last; she didn't want them to think themselves anymore important than they already apparently did.

"Who's Bop the boar?" asked Peter's grandmother a bit too loudly, having heard it wrong.

"No, mother," Mrs. Pevensie whispered; "she said _whore_ , not _boar_."

"Pray do not use such nasty words, Helen," gasped her mother, speaking too loudly again, having only heard about a quarter of what Mrs. Pevensie had attempted to tell her discreetly. "You know I never raised you to say that. But do tell me, dear, I missed it-what was that Mrs. Smith was saying about a bench?"

Peter couldn't help it, his grandmother's confusion completely broke the tension for him, he burst out laughing right then and there and had to excuse himself to go outside for a moment to let it out of his system.

That night, after the Smiths and his grandmother had left, Peter got ready for bed. After brushing his teeth and changing into his night-clothes, he walked into the bedroom where Susan was sitting on the bed, her legs tucked under her. Maugrim was on the rug beside the chair next to the window, and he lifted his head off of his paws, his ears pricking up, when Peter entered.

"And now you see why we don't have people over that often," Peter joked lightly. Then, in a more somber voice, "I'm sorry they were so horrible to you, Su. Gosh, that was a terrible evening, wasn't it?"

Susan got up off the bed and walked over to him. "Well, on a positive note, the wine was fantastic."

"Excellent year," Peter agreed.

"The beef-stew was better," Maugrim said, licking at his teeth. "Helen out-did herself."

"Your grandmother was nice," Susan stated, feeling it was one of the few nice things to be said for the _people_ they'd dined with.

"Yeah. So Christian slept through all that, huh?"

Susan nodded. "I know, I'm still in denial."

Peter started mimicking the look on Cynthia's face when she found out he was married; and Susan swallowed back a giggle. "Peter!"

"Sorry."

A rich, throaty wolf-laugh came from Maugrim, letting him know his wife wasn't serious in her scolding.

"Oh, well," sighed Susan, "That's life-that's what it's like."

"So now life's a bad dinner party with the majority of the guests being people you don't like? I thought you said life was like a stream," Peter whisper-teased, slipping his arms around her.

"Are you _ever_ going to let that go?"

"Never." He kissed her twice on the lips.

"I suppose I can live with that, if I must." She kissed him back.

He pulled away and kissed her neck.

"It's late," Susan murmured, "perhaps we should go to bed."

"Believe it or not, that's just what I was thinking." Honestly, it was, but he wasn't thinking about actually _sleeping_.

She caught his drift. "All right, give me a minute. I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be back."

"Great," Maugrim sulked, trailing after his mistress. "Another night of staring at the wall."

"Oh, do hush, Maugrim." Susan rolled her eyes, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

While he was waiting for Susan to come back, Peter decided to go and check on Christian. He was filled with a sense of fatherly pride as he watched the boy roll over in his sleep and clutch at a stuffed rabbit. He shuddered when he thought that if Lord Asriel had succeeded in cutting Maugrim and Susan apart, he might be a widower now and his son, his beautiful little boy, would have never been born. Asriel, now there was a man who thought ends justified the means; but, Peter thought, people like that had to realize that it didn't-not always. It was important to think about what would be missed, as well as what would be gained.

"Goodnight, Son." His voice was low, almost inaudible.

When he returned to the bedroom, Susan was sitting on the bed again; Maugrim was already facing the wall with something of a begrudging look on his wolfish face.

"There you are."

"I was just checking on the boy."

As he sat beside her, Susan noticed that Peter seemed to be looking down the front of her nightdress.

"Oh, I spilled something on it by accident a couple of days ago-it didn't come out all the way."

"What?"

"The stain," she explained, motioning down at a small brown spot roughly around the area he was staring at. "On the nightdress."

"I wasn't looking at the stain."

"Peter!" she scoffed fake-indignantly, putting her hand to her heart.

Maugrim let out a half-snort, still staring dutifully at the wall.

Susan kissed her husband and then laid back on the bed, pulling him down on top of her.

Early the next morning, even before the sun had started to rise, Maugrim, who had been asleep at the foot of the bed, having climbed there after Peter and Susan were done, suddenly awoke and sniffed-seemingly at nothing-nervously.

"Susan." Maugrim tapped his human with his paw. She was already awake, having woken up with him, but her eyes were half-closed still. "Do you smell that?"

"Smell what?" she moaned sleepily.

"There's something the matter with the air-it's coming from the window."

She couldn't smell anything, but there was indeed a strange _sound_ at the window now; it was somewhat akin to the sound of raindrops pelting the glass, but it was slightly different as well-more musical…almost bell-like.

"Peter!" Susan shook his arm.

"Sure, Su, I'd love some more tea. Oh, and pass the preserves, will you?" Peter said in his sleep, shaking off the last remains of a dream he'd been having.

"Peter, wake up."

"What time is it?" Through his eyelashes, he could see that it was still very dark.

"Don't know, get up."

He sat up at last and stretched his arms over his head. "All right, what's the matter?"

They went over to the window and when they stood before it, a strong wind seemed to break the latch and it blew open.

Fine golden-coloured particles streamed in like dozens of miniature fireflies filling the part of the room they stood in. It swirled around them like glittering fairy-dust.

At first they stood, blinking at the particles uncomprehendingly, as if they thought this might just be a dream hanging over them still. Then some of the particles came close to their fingers and, as if they were magnets, pulled their wedding-rings together. For a second they were fused solid, then it released and the rings were separated again and they could move their fingers freely.

They turned to each other, both silently asking, "Do you remember?" For of course they were both thinking about what had happened to them on their wedding night, when in the morning they found they couldn't separate their fingers because their rings were fused together. It had been a lucky thing, too, it had protected them from a horrible danger that threatened them both at the time.

"Dust!" said Susan at last, trembling by this point. "It has to be Dust."

"What's it doing here?" Peter wondered aloud.

Maugrim started barking at the window as the dust collected itself, swirled round once more, and then disappeared into the darkness just as the first rays of the sun arrived.

"If it's good, instead of bad and wicked like my mother used to tell Ed and me," Susan mulled logically, "then maybe it's trying to warn us about something…or…I don't know…do you think we could have been hallucinating?"

Peter's eyes widened and his face went dead-white. "Add an 'bard'!"

"What?" She frowned at him in confusing. What was he going off about?

"Remember what you told me about that dream you had? When Edmund was in danger and you saw something that said 'Sval'?"

"Yes." She waved that off dismissively. "But it was only a nightmare, nothing more."

"Add a 'bard'," Peter repeated, going over to a desk in the far corner of the room where they kept pens and paper, scribbling something down. "You get 'Svalbard'." He slammed the pen down.

"Kingdom of the ice bears," Susan realized.

"They keep prisoners there sometimes," Maugrim added, a small doggish whimper escaping from the back of his throat.

"Something is wrong in that other world," Peter said firmly, thoroughly convinced. "I can feel it. We've got to find a way to go back."


	3. Lyra at the Station

There was almost no colour whatsoever in the ruins of the abandoned subway station; it was all pale grays and lime-stone whites, the colour of ashes. There was very little light as well. The only way of seeing much of anything in that place was to step in the directions where there were cracks in the dome-shaped ceiling up ahead and to squint in the murky purplish-red dusk strains that came from the cold-mostly empty-sky outside.

Lyra Silvertongue found herself wishing that her dæmon, Pantalaimon, had not yet settled and could have shifted into a firefly, the way he often did when she was a little girl and had chosen to explore a dark place. Glowing like a willow-the-wisp out of a Gyptian's scary fire-side tale, his little firefly shape had always been both a comfort and an eerie presence at the same time. She missed that. Not so much (except for just then, since it was so dark), however, as she missed his hissing pole-cat forms; there was something distinctly wild and familiar about Pantalaimon being a cat, something that felt rather right. He had settled, actually, as a pine marten with a silky, cream-coloured throat.

She wasn't little anymore; the three years had done her in a bit. Her short, almost stocky, little figure had become taller and, much to her disappointment as it did not seem somehow to be quite an appropriate body for someone who liked roughness, travel, and exploration, and all the other things nice, perfect ladies weren't really supposed to like, a bit willowy as well. Both she and her pine marten seemed to offer a measure of grace neither of them really possessed. After all, her speech patterns, her inability to speak in grammatically correct sentences, especially when she was angry, had not improved, or even changed, in the least.

For nearly three whole years she'd been wandering this dumpy other-world. It seemed to be a world at its end that should have disappeared upon its death but hadn't. If she had not had Pan to talk to, she would have gone mad long ago. There was no one to take care of her here, and though she didn't mind that, seeing as she was a strong-willed sort of person who could easily take care of herself and disliked being fussed over, there were moments when it was a bit lonely.

This was not, she had to admit, what she had been hoping for-or even expecting-when she'd followed her father, Lord Asriel, through the door in the Northern Lights. She'd expected she would have something very important to do here. That the Lion had wanted her to be here-something in his face. Aslan hadn't meant as much to her as he had evidently meant to Lucy Pevensie, but she still felt compelled, all the same, to be where he wanted her to be. Where she needed to be. And he had let her come here without trying to stop her. But why, she wondered, would she have to be in the middle of nowhere? This whole world was a nowhere!

The only glimmers of hope she'd had in the past years spent in the dumpy nowhere was one or two sightings of something that looked like Dust. She had always followed it, as she felt she and Pan were perhaps supposed to find Dust and then would miraculously know, at last, what they had to do. But she always lost the trail.

Sometimes Pan said, "It's too bad we don't have help."

"We help each other, Pan," Lyra would reply. "And we got the alethiometer, too. We ain't givin' up, Pan. We keep searching for Dust; when we've found it, we'll know what to do."

Comforted, even satisfied for the time being, Pan would reply, "And we'll do it."

Mostly, as there didn't seem to be anyone living in that empty world, Lyra had had to keep her ears open for signs of life the same way an animal does when its being hunted; for she was avoiding her father, Lord Asriel, and his dæmon, Stelmaria. She was a little afraid of him; he'd disliked being stuck in this world even more than she did and seemed to be getting more dangerously angry over it, over being held as useless as a prisoner, so that she was afraid he would do something drastic.

It was funny how easily Lyra kept forgetting how afraid of him she was, though, when she hadn't seen him in a while.

It was just like back at Jordan College; Lord Asriel meant excitement and a change of pace. This was something Pan always had to warn his human about getting too close to. It wasn't safe, he reminded her frequently. Often he pointed out what Asriel had tried to do to Susan and Maugrim to get into this other world, this world that had seemed so bright and beautiful when seen from the Northern Lights-not as it truly was, with its broken-down buildings and crumbing places of learning. Of course, Lyra didn't think he would do anything like that to _her_ , at least not lightly, considering he hadn't wanted to use Lucy and Reepicheep to get the energy needed to travel between worlds. Still, it was best not to take any chances. No need to confront him unless she had to, even when her loneliness and her irksome desire, in spite of everything, to have a real father, made her want to.

That morning, Lyra had woken up in one of the ruined houses she'd been living in (she had to switch houses every few days, usually, because either of Lord Asriel getting closer or else some crucial part of the rooms falling in like a plaster avalanche. Her clothes, which, surprisingly, were not particularly ratty, had been pilfered from old wardrobes and cabinets and closets and draws from the different places she lived in.

Once, for two months, she had stayed very happily in what she assumed was once a fine college not unlike Jordan where she'd grown up. It was a lovely old place, in better shape than most of its neighboring buildings, and its over-all home-like feel made all this waiting-out easier to endure. Then Lord Asriel showed up, searching the college, not for his daughter, but for any useful tools or documents left behind by whatever scholars had once lived there. He ended up making it his own temporary house; and so Lyra and Pan crept out through the former servants corridors while he was sleeping.

Anyway, the house Lyra was currently living in was an old manor, probably the former home of a lady, she thought with some unease, similar to Mrs. Coulter. There were some faded portraits on the walls of the second-floor and they had a lady with a sleek monkey dæmon (apparently the people in this world had had dæmons) in them, only her hair-what could be seen of it-was glossy black, not butter blonde. Lyra disliked sleeping on that floor and usually avoided it altogether; it gave her and Pan nightmares.

When she had stretched, yawned, and dressed herself, she'd seen a stream of Dust, glittering against the dismalness, swirling outside her window. Scooping Pan up into her arms, she followed it down the cracked cobblestone roads to the old underground station.

"The Dust is gone again," said Pan sadly, climbing up from his mistress's arms onto her shoulders where he could slink over them and rest comfortably.

"It stayed longer this time, and it led us here…" Lyra mused. "My God, Pan! What an awful place this is." Somehow the station, which should have been bright, poster-filled, and teaming with crowds, being empty and broken was worse even than the second-floor paintings were.

"What are we going to do now, Lyra?"

"Dunno, I'm gonna ask the alethiometer," Lyra decided, taking the golden compass out of her coral-coloured sweater's left pocket. She, like Lucy, was one of the few lucky persons who could read an alethiometer by instinct and hadn't needed to study for years and years as Edmund had.

Resting the alehiometer between the palms of her open hands as she sat on the remains of what must have been a bench in the old days when this station was a real transportation service instead of the silvery-gray lodging for shadowy corners and aberrations, Lyra gazed down at its crystal face encircled with gold. In her head she held her question lightly, like it was something alive. It was no good to demand of the alethiometer an answer, even when you read it the natural, studious way; by instinct, it was all the more necessary not to.

 _Where do I go now? What do I do? Where's the Dust gone to? What about the Lion, ain't he ever gonna send for me or nothing?_ Lyra's thoughts, however gently-meant, were racing. The hands on the alethiometer moved round in a useless manner similar to that of a compass when a magnet is throwing off its ability to tell directions, as if to punish her for asking too many questions at once. Sighing, she narrowed it down in her mind and held her inquiries even more lightly.

Finally, it answered. She saw herself, Pan scampering along at her ankles, walking through the tunnel on the ruined tracks until she vanished from sight. Before she could try to ask another question, Pan, sitting beside her, let out a shrill cry.

"It's Stelmaria, they're coming!"

The great pad-padding of the snow-leopard's paws were as close to dead-silent as one could get in a place full of as many old echoes as this ghost-station was, but Pantalaimon could sense the presence of another dæmon. Indeed, it wasn't more than a few seconds after her dæmon caught wind of Stelmaria coming that Lyra could distantly hear the sound of Lord Asriel's boots against the stone, brick, and cement that covered the station floor.

"We've got to go quick, then, Pan." Lyra stood up, closed the alethiometer, and stuffed it back into her pocket. "Come on, hurry."

Together they raced into the dark tunnel, not stopping to think about what could possibly be waiting for them on the other side.

Nevertheless, they weren't, even subconsciously, expecting what they did come into. It was like magic. There was a flash, followed by a sound that-Pantalaimon thought-was very rich, like a bugle or a hunting horn. Then they noticed that the track under their feet wasn't broken the way it had been further back, and the feeling that, while they were still in a subway station, it was not the same station they'd just been in a few moments before, came over them.

"Gosh, Pan," muttered Lyra under her breath, unable to think of anything else to say as she took in their strange surroundings.

The tile on the walls wasn't gray and it wasn't falling off, either. It was yellow and red, and there were posters on some of them. There was a bench, sort of parallel to the broken one they'd been sitting on back in that other, dead world, only this one was whole and not so old.

Then came a voice: "Hey, you!"

Lyra's head jerked round and Pan's neck turned.

Three or four large, stupid-looking boys of about fifteen, dressed in English school uniforms, were standing on the platform, staring down at Lyra and Pan on the track.

"What do you want?" Lyra demanded, not liking their faces.

"Better get off the track before the subway comes," one of them chuckled. "Otherwise, you'll be smashed flat."

Lyra did not like them, but she liked the idea of being 'smashed flat' even less, so she and Pan obeyed and climbed up onto the platform.

"What's this?" said one of the boys, noticing Pan.

"He's mine," Lyra said too quickly and in too harsh a tone, the kind that invites bullies because they know they can get to you easily.

"Wook, She's got a wittle ferret!" The nastiest of the group jeered, reaching down and unknowingly breaking the rules of a serious taboo.

Lyra panicked; she felt their fingers on her own limbs through them touching her dæmon and was utterly repulsed. "You can't! You ain't…it's not allowed…put him down!"

Pan's ear was pulled; and he dared not cry out for his human. His repressed scream came bellowing out of Lyra's throat and open mouth.

They started playing 'hot-potato' with poor Pantalaimon, who was trembling uncontrollably by this point, tossing him back and forth like a hacky-sack.

For Lyra, the world all around her spun wildly out of control, she fell to her knees sobbing. Three times in a row she threw up. But this only made the boys feel even more amused, and they didn't lessen in manhandling Pan, still assuming he was her pet.

She screamed again. That scream was her saving grace. A young man, walking towards their part of the platform from the other side of the station heard and rushed towards her; it was none other than Peter Pevensie.

"What on earth?" Peter exclaimed, not recognizing her at first but sensing something amiss as he grabbed her arm and helped her to her feet.

She was seeing double, but she still recognized him-even if there were two, no, make that _three_ of him. "Peter?"

Her voice was the tip-off. " _Lyra_?"

Where's her dæmon? He thought, looking round. Then he noticed the boy again and saw more clearly what it was they were grabbing and squeezing at. It was a beautiful cream-throated pine marten; Pan!

"Let him go, you idiots!" Peter shouted, reaching over and trying to pry poor Pantalaimon out of their grasp.

One of them bumped against his shoulder while shifting to play keep-away with Lyra's dæmon. "Better say sorry, mate." He spoke as if Peter was the one who had bumped _him_.

"I'm not apologizing to you!" he retorted indignantly, punching the boy dead in the face when it became clear that not only did he want an apology but he also wasn't going to give up Pan.

If Peter felt at all bad about hitting a school-age boy when he himself was older and in a university, a grown-up, it wasn't until later. His blood was boiling over how they were violating Lyra too much for him to feel any pity just then.

Pan was released at last and he raced back over to Lyra's open arms.

Unfortunately, a fight ensued as the boys weren't, apparently, very bright and thought they could take Peter and 'teach him a lesson' and tried to beat him up.

Still a little dizzy, but coming more to herself, Lyra jumped on the back of the boy about to hit Peter while the others held him by his arms.

"Leave him alone!" This was followed by many colourful words Peter would have preferred her not even to _know_ , let alone, _use_.

"What the devil's going on over here?" a bobby came rushing towards them blowing a whistle.

Where were you a few minutes ago? Both Lyra and Pan and Peter couldn't help thinking rather sullenly.

"These boys were victimizing this poor girl," Peter told the bobby in his most grown-up tone as Lyra slid off of the boy's back, back onto the platform ground. "I tried to make them stop, but they wouldn't. I'm sorry it had to get this far, though."

"You're that university student who's wife's got that big dog, aren't you?" asked the bobby, reaching up and straightening his helmet.

"Yes, that's me."

"You don't usually cause trouble, far as I can remember." His eyes zeroed in on the boys. "As for you, I wish I could say the same. Aren't you the same hooligans who threw a cricket ball at my head the other day?"

Most of the boys, though stupid, were clever enough to deny it; all except one, who said, "It was only a _little_ cricket ball."

"Robbie, you fumble-mouthed moron!" The others glared at him.

"You boys had better come with me," said the bobby, ignoring their protests of, "But you don't understand!"; "We were framed!"; "That man hit us-for no reason. He should be the one in trouble, not us!"; and, "You don't by any chance still _have_ my cricket ball, do you?"

"Thanks," Lyra said to Peter under her breath, cradling a frazzled, dazed Pan in the crook of her right arm.

"You're welcome," Peter blurted out. Then, in a completely different sort of breathless tone, one of delight and not exhaustion, "But, Lyra, is it really you? I can't believe it! I mean, how did you get here? You've gotten taller, too, I think."

Before Lyra could answer him, there came a growl, and a snow-leopard appeared on the same tracks of the same tunnel she and Pan had come out of earlier. After her, stepping out of the shadows and standing just behind his dæmon, came the unmistakable shape of Lord Asriel.

Pan let out a whimper, burying his face under his human's armpit in a cowardly manner. Lyra did what was a bit surprising for her but was something Lucy would have done without a second thought; she found herself stepping closer to Peter, as if for protection.

Peter slipped his arm around her shoulders and pressed her tightly to his side, giving Asriel a hard look.

Lord Asriel stepped off the track, Stelmaria just in front of him.

For a moment they all stood on the platform staring at one another wordlessly.

After this pause, Asriel said to Peter, "Well, well. It's been a while, hasn't it, Pevensie?"

"Whatever it is you want," Peter growled, "the answer is no."

"Lyra," said Lord Asriel, "what did you mean following me through the Northern Lights just to avoid me all that time? You've behaved stupidly and accomplished nothing."

"Same for you," Lyra shot back.

Nice one, thought Peter.

"And you, Pevensie!" Lord Asriel turned his attention back to Peter. "What is your problem?"

"Oh, let me think…" Peter sneered; his eyes narrowed and flashed with hatred. "Maybe my _problem_ is that, the last time we saw each other, you were trying to kill my wife and unborn child."

Stelmaria beat one of her white paws on the platform ground impatiently, rolling her eyes.

"Pevensie, has anyone ever told you that you have a real problem letting things go?"

"Maybe I'm not getting across here," Peter huffed. "You tried to kill my wife; you're dead to me."

"Oh, and I suppose the fact that I saved your sorry neck from that spy-fly and not only got you to safety but also secured a place for in at Jordan College for four years-where you were completely untroubled-meant nothing?" He raised a golden eyebrow challengingly.

Peter was not defeated, but he was momentarily silenced. He could never forgive Lord Asriel for what he had done to Susan and to unborn Christian, yet he couldn't quite forget, even now, the debt he owed this man for saving his life in that snow-covered wilderness that surrounded Bolvangar. He could never forget that Lord Asriel had never even told Lucy and Lyra that he was their father, that they'd had to find it out from the Gyptian King, and still he could never quite pay the man back for what he had done for his scholarly pursuits in regards to Jordan College, either. It was truly being between a rock and a hard place-dealing with this nobleman.

Finally, having nothing else to say, Peter let go of Lyra's arm, grabbed her hand instead, and said, "Come on, Lyra, let's go."

"If you want to travel between worlds, Pevensie, you'll need my help-whether you like it or not!" Lord Asriel called after him, his voice echoing across the empty-at the moment-station.

Peter turned round half-way. "How do you know I want to go back?"

"You have the same expression on your face I had whenever I looked at my photogram of the city beyond the Northern Lights, having no way-at the time-to get to it. That feeling of helplessness, the one I've had for nearly three years after reaching my goal and getting no closer to finding the source of Dust through it-everything being for nothing. We're the same now."

"We," Peter said tersely, "are _not_ the same."

"Deny it all you want, Pevensie. That changes nothing." He and his dæmon blinked their eyes indifferently in unison. "How long has it been, by the way, that you've been trying to get back? Any luck?"

Two days since we saw the Dust and figured it out about Svalbard, Peter thought, and no, Susan and I haven't got any leads-we're almost all out of ideas.

He said none of this out loud, refusing to give Lord Asriel the satisfaction. But he did hang his head, defeated at last.

"Didn't think so," said Lord Asriel.

 _This is for Edmund and Lucy_ , _I'm doing this for them_ , Peter reminded himself. "Fine."


	4. Lyra at the Pevensies' House

Susan was waiting at the newsstand. She glanced up at the clock a few inches to the upper right of it; Peter should have been back by now. What was keeping him? Sighing to herself, she picked up a magazine and flipped through it in a half-interested manner. Maugrim sat at her side, sniffing or yawning occasionally. In public, he wasn't supposed to talk; usually, this vexed him terribly, but right then it wasn't bothering him too much, since he didn't have anything really to say at the moment.

"Hallo," said a friendly (perhaps _too_ friendly, thought Susan and Maugrim) voice. "That's a nice dog." A young man who appeared to be around her age with short, curly hair and a pair of unfortunate-looking, round, wire-rim spectacles on his face popped up at her side.

"Thanks," said Susan hastily, suddenly much more intent-and keen-on her magazine than she had been before the man had shown up.

"I like animals, but they don't let me or my roommate keep them at the flat-it was part of the lease."

"Uh-huh." She didn't even glance up, turning a page.

"So is he part wolf or something?"

What was it Peter had called Maugrim before? It would be best to keep their story as straight and simple as possible; but Susan couldn't remember what kind of dog her husband had said her dæmon was. It started with an A, she could recall that much at least.

"He's just a dog, I think." She shrugged her shoulders, keeping her tone demure and vague.

"Ah," said the young man. Then, "So, haven't I seen you around here before?"

"This is a public station;" Susan said, rather too harshly, "tons of people come here every day."

"I just meant…"

Maugrim yawned and, reaching up, scratched at one of his ears with his left hind-paw.

"What's your name?" the man tried, still attempting to keep a conversation going, indifferent, it seemed, to Susan's apparent disinterest in him.

"Phyllis," she lied. She reached up with her left hand to pull a lock of stray hair that had fallen out of the tight black knot she'd fixed the rest of it into behind her ear. At that moment he noticed the gold ring on her finger.

Ah, so the pretty woman with the handsome dog that looked like a wolf was named Phyllis. It was a nice name; but, irrelevant now, sadly, because she was married.

"Well, it was nice talking to you, Phyllis," he sighed, trying not to sound too disappointed.

Then there was a cry of, "Susan!"

Susan turned and saw, coming towards them, a tall, willowy girl with long, wild light brown hair that fell to her waist in sloppy ringlets. Across her shoulders rested a pine marten. Coming up behind her was Peter, and, behind him, someone else she couldn't quite make out yet-only that it was a man. But she quickly forgot about her husband and the man both at once when the girl came nearer still and she recognized her as her own half-sister.

"Lyra!"

Maugrim's ears pricked up, and-under his breath-he actually dared to breathe, "Pantalaimon!"

Seeing what was clearly an important reunion of some sort coming up, not even troubling to puzzle out why the girl had just called Phyllis 'Susan', the young man walked away.

Throwing her arms around her half-sister, Susan embraced her tightly. She and Lyra had never been very close; it had always been Ed who was kindest and nearest to, and most familiar with, and best understood, Lyra; but that didn't matter one bit at the moment. Both were delighted to see each other again.

"Peter," Susan began, grinning at him with shinnying eyes, "where did you find her?"

"Hello, Susan," the voice of the man behind him said.

Maugrim growled; he knew that voice, and he could sense Stelmaria's presence.

"What in God's name is _he_ doing here?" Susan demanded, glaring at Lord Asriel and taking a step closer to Peter. It looked as if Maugrim desperately wanted to say something particularly nasty to Stelmaria, but he held his tongue for the continued sake of pretending he was a dumb animal, nothing more than an over-sized pet.

"Warm welcomes all around from the Pevensie family," Lord Asriel said dryly.

"Peter, I need to speak with you. Now." She wouldn't dignify Lord Asriel's presence-or his comment-with a reply.

"Excuse us," Peter said to Lyra and Asriel as he was pulled by the arm over to the other side of the newsstand.

"Peter, I refuse to have anything to do with that man." Susan folded her arms across her chest. Maugrim scowled over his broad, gray shoulder at Stelmaria.

"Su, look, we don't have to like him-or even trust him-but he might be our only chance."

"Only chance?"

"To get back and help Edmund and Lucy."

"Is he the one who got Lyra here?"

"No," answered Peter, "but he followed her; and he knows more about interworld travel than we do."

"Peter," she sighed, shaking her head vehemently, "at the risk of sounding like a complete nag, let me say this: have you forgotten who _really_ opened the door in the Northern Lights?"

Peter blinked at her, looking unexplainably stunned for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, shaking it off and coming back to himself. "You sounded almost exactly like Lucy for a moment there."

Susan managed a brief smile at the thought of Peter's little sister, Lyra's other half-sister, which quickly unfolded and turned right back down into a pout. "But seriously, we don't need Lord Asriel."

"You know we do," he responded gravely; he knew this was going to be hard, but it was the only way-sooner than she realized, Susan was likely to see it, too. "It was Aslan who did finally open the door; but Asriel knew about it-that it needed a lot of energy to be opened-before that."

"I don't want that man anywhere near Christian." She voiced her truest fears in the matter.

"Christian doesn't have a dæmon," Peter reminded her. "There's nothing for him to be pulled apart _from_."

"I don't care," she said flatly. "Lord Asriel is a complete scoundrel."

"And look," muttered Maugrim under a heavy breath so that only Susan-and maybe Peter if he was paying especially close attention to his wife's dæmon for some reason or other-could hear him and realize that he was _talking_ ; "they're spying on us."

He was correct; Lord Asriel hadn't moved, but his dæmon was only a few feet away from where they were trying to have a private conversation-eavesdropping, no doubt.

"He tried to kill me." Susan wondered if maybe Lord Asriel had hit Peter over the head with the back of his rifle or something, because, otherwise, she just couldn't see-or fathom-how he could even be _thinking_ about letting that horrible man back into their lives.

From very nearly the moment they met, that dratted Lord Asriel had been a negative presence in her life. First, he an affair with her mother. Then, years later, when Susan was no longer a Coulter but a Pevensie, and pregnant, he'd jolly well kidnapped her and Maugrim, taken them to the Northern Lights without explanation, then tried to tear them apart.

He was a monster, and she would have nothing whatever to do with him.

Hearing the conversation through his dæmon, Lord Asriel approached them, saying, "Well, to be fair, Mrs. Pevensie, I wasn't necessarily trying to kill you. Your death would have merely been an unfortunate side-effect of what I was trying to accomplish."

She was momentarily tempted to call him a name which insinuated that his parents had never been married, but she held back…it wouldn't have been polite or lady-like to say that word. She thought it, gentle-minded though she usually was, she thought it all right-she just didn't _say_ it.

"Ass," Peter muttered under his breath, reacting to what Lord Asriel had just said.

"What's in it for you?" Susan demanded, speaking to Asriel now in spite of her determination not to so much as address him. "If this is the only practical way for us to get where we're needed-letting you help us, I mean-as I'm starting to think, much as I hate it, and you, might be the case-why would you want to help us? After all you've done…"

"If you must know, Mrs. Pevensie, it's because I want to get back to that world, too."

"You?" she asked suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because, I mean to stand up to the Ruling Powers, not hide away vacationing in a parallel universe for no reason. Besides, about Dust; how the devil do you expect me to go back to the drawing board when the drawing board is in a completely different world?"

"You go back," Susan told him, an incredulous snort coming from Maugrim, "and you'll be killed for heresy."

"Which will be a _blessing_ compared to what I'll do to you if you ever try to hurt my family again, Lord Asriel," Peter put in warningly.

Lord Asriel's gaze shifted over to his dæmon and she rolled her great cat-eyes, the soft, white velvet-like lids closing over their blue, tawny-flecked irises when she blinked afterwards.

"You're not afraid?" Lyra said, coming into the conversation now. She had to hand it to her father, if nothing else, he had guts.

"Afraid of what I'm going to put to ruin when I find Dust?" he scoffed patronizingly as if she were six and he was much too brilliant to be bothered by her childish awe.

Pan snuck at glance at Stelmaria, still fretful, but with a bit of Lyra's admiration for Lord Asriel missed in with his expression as well.

Susan stamped her foot. "Oh, if we've got to have him-beast that he is-do let's get out of the streets before somebody notices he has a snow-leopard at his side!"

They agreed to this and Peter, though it made him shudder when he thought about what he was doing and he had to keep telling himself not to think about it, that he must simply do it at once or he would lose his nerve, led Lord Asriel and his dæmon straight into his parent's home.

Lyra, who of course had come along, too, darted about the whole house-gaping at things excitedly. She jumped back when Pan accidentally turned on the radio and an announcer's voice came out.

It was also Lyra who was most interested in Christian. As the boy had been born dæmonless, he was of no use to Asriel, so the nobleman pretty much ignored Susan Pevensie's child. But his daughter was delighted with the little boy; she had never thought she liked babies-or toddlers-much, yet this one, she liked just fine. It was a little odd, Christian having no dæmon, and if Lyra wasn't used to that because of Peter and because of seeing that those boys in the subway hadn't got any-it might have made her nervous. Pan looked a bit uncomfortable, but he got over it-he, too, being used to such sights because of Peter.

Unfortunately, much as she came to like him, Christian did not make quite the best over-all impression on Lyra he might have. Somehow or other he got ahold of her alethiometer and pulled it out of her pocket. Susan had to come and get him to take it out of his mouth so that she could clean it off and give it back to Lyra.

Lord Asriel would be pleased with nothing. He disliked the furniture and the food, as well as nearly everything else. The household bookcase in the corner of the downstairs hallway, he declared full of rubbish that would be of no use to them. When Peter explained that some of those tomes just so happened to be family heirlooms, Lord Asriel said, in a very condensing manner, that it figured.

Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie hadn't been home when their son had brought in two more people from that other world, so when they arrived home to find a rather alarming-looking man sleeping in their living room with a snow-leopard at his feet-also asleep-but making this great rumble, a kind of snore, it seemed, they were a bit shaken up.

Thankfully, Lyra was a nicer surprise for them. Peter had given her Lucy's old room for the time being, and she was curled up half-way under the covers, Pantalaimon snuggled under one of her dangling arms hanging over the side of the bed. She looked sweet, especially because she didn't talk in her sleep and so one couldn't hear her rather colorful abuse of the English language or her disregard for grammar, and little snowy-coloured Pan, dozing so intently, looked as gentle and harmless as Stelmaria did dangerous.

There were a few passing tears in Mrs. Pevensie's eyes at the sight a girl-whatever her age-with a smallish dæmon asleep in her daughter's old room. Helen and Mr. Pevensie missed Lucy far more than they let on. Susan was, of course, some comfort to them, but, understandably, much as they loved their daughter-in-law and her Maugrim, it wasn't the same.

Late that night-nearly early morning-Susan woke with a start because she heard crying. Lord Asriel heard it, too, but he just rolled over and pulled the knitted blanket Maugrim had begrudgingly tossed to Stelmaria for her master's use over his head.

"Peter," Susan moaned, thinking it was Christian even though it didn't really sound like him; she was too tired to tell the difference. "It's your turn."

"Checkmate," muttered Peter, having a dream about playing chess. "I win."

"Peter!" Susan kicked at whichever one of his legs was closest to her side of the bed.

"Ow!" he grunted. "Stop kicking me."

"Go check on Christian."

"Me? Why me?"

"Just go. It's your turn. I checked on him the last time something was wrong and it took me three hours to convince him that there weren't actually monsters living in his closet."

"Didn't we just check on him five hours ago?" murmured Peter, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Peter, I mean it." She glowered at him.

Peter cracked one eye open to see his wife looking cross and her dæmon's ears flat back, pin-straight. It was a losing battle.

"All right, Su," yawned Peter at last, climbing out of bed. "I'm going."

"Good."

"Oh, and Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Bring us back a glass of water since you're up," Maugrim told him, snuggling back down on the foot of the bed.

"Well of all the blasted nerve-" Peter began. Then he thought better of it, shook his head, pulled his dressing-gown over his night-shirt and went out into the hallway. "Why is it always me?" he sighed, rather over-dramatically, to himself.

It was not, it turned out, Christian crying at all. The little black-haired boy was sleeping sound as anything when Peter peeked into the nursery room. The real source of the sobs was Lyra, and she had steadied them by this point.

"Lyra?" Peter peeked into Lucy's old room. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," she said, her voice shaky and slightly stuffy the way a person's voice is when they've had a good cry and then are trying to hide it.

He didn't believe her. Quickly, before she could tell him to go away, he flicked on the lights.

"Hey!" she protested, sitting up straight in the bed, pouting.

"What's wrong?"

"Nohfin'."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Lyra, what happened?"

"We had a bad dream, is all," Pan blurted out.

"Hush, Pan," Lyra told her dæmon in a low, whisper-hiss.

But Peter had already heard. "Oh."

"We dreamed that we were twelve again, and Pan was a pole cat," Lyra confessed, still half-holding onto the pretense of being sullen. "And we was with Iorek when he took us to that house in the snowy valley, see? You remember, where I found Roger without his dæmon."

Peter nodded. He remembered all right, that had been pretty traumatic for everyone-but mostly for Lyra, as Roger was her best friend.

"Wells, in my dream I'm a-walking," Lyra went on, "and I says, 'Pan come on…' cause Pantalaimon doesn't want to go in and I dunno why…then he runs the other way…and I feel this awful tug, like we're going to split apart-only we don't…he comes back. Then we go in anyways and we sees a boy all covered up by a blanket…and Pan can't sense any dæmon…and I know it's going to be Roger, right? So I'm trembling like anythin' and then the blanket pulls back, but it's not Roger, it's Billy Costa-Ma Costa's son. And Ratter's missing. He looks and me, all pale like, and I look back at him. Then I scream-and Pan screams, too."

"I can see why that would be upsetting," said Peter sympathetically.

"I'm fine, though." Lyra glanced over at the door. "Don't tell Uncle As-I mean, my father-I was crying, though, okay?"

"I really don't have motivation to tell him anything I don't have to, Lyra," Peter assured her. "You think you're going to be able to go back to sleep now?"

"Yeah." She stroked Pan's fur with the side of her right hand. "Night, Peter."

"Night." He hesitated at the lights. "You want me to leave them on for you?"

"I ain't scared of the dark," she said, a bit indignantly.

He flicked them off. "That's all right, then."

"Peter?"

"Yes, Lyra?"

A muffled, "Thanks again" came from under the bedcovers.

"You're welcome."


	5. The Witch Queen's Warning

A great flash of blue light suddenly blazed across the sky above the Gyptian camp (currently in the fields near Jordan College), narrowed, and then began to come lower and lower.

When it settled, dimming ever so slightly, a beautiful golden-haired girl with a milk-and-honey complexion stood at the borders of the camp, faint silvery-azure light still radiating off of her. She was a star, the daughter of Ramandu.

The first Gyptian to notice her was a thick-set fellow with a black mustache dressed in a gray tunic over an indigo shift. To most persons he looked unfriendly, but those who knew him best-mainly other Gyptians he traveled with-thought of him as being very cheerful and loving. His dæmon was a crane, tall and simple, with small, black, happy eyes.

He could see at once that this star was an important lady (her dæmon was not with present), so he bowed to her. "Good evening, your ladyship."

"A good evening to you, as well," said the girl, trying to be courteous but clearly suffering from more anxiety than was good for her. "I've come to see my aunt, Serafina Pekkala. Please, will you tell her I am here and that I've urgent news that she ought to be told of at once?"

"With a good will, lady."

"Thank you," said Ramandu's daughter, seating herself down on a smooth boulder a few inches away from where they'd been standing while they spoke. "I shall wait here."

Farder Coram was resting on the cushion that took up more than half of the space inside his tent. He was not sleeping, but he was not awake in the sense of being fully alert and ready to spring up at the slightest sound either; he was quite snug under his 'quilt of many patches' which also had some deer-hide and bear-hide in it, making it even warmer. And, of course, Farder Coram was rather an old fellow, he got tired out more easily than the younger Gyptian men did. What was more, he was, for lack of a better word, crippled.

His dæmon, a large yellow-orange tabby (Lucy Pevensie always thought it looked, perhaps because of its sheer size and the odd shape of its ears, more like a caracal, but that was only her own personal opinion on the matter and some might have disagreed with her if she'd ever thought it important enough to mention aloud), was resting a short way off from her human's head, a faint purr coming from her ruffled-yet still somehow glossy at the same time-throat; the tip of her tail moved up and down in time with Farder Coram's slow, steady breaths.

Sighing contentedly to himself, Farder Coram opened his eyes a little wider and shifted his gaze over to the other side of the cushion, looking tenderly at the woman who was lying there, his wife. He'd never thought he would have a wife, especially at his age. And certainly he never imagined a wife like the one he had gotten so unexpectedly. She was none other than Serafina Pekkala.

Her long black hair was pulled back into a braid that had come loose at the end, looking-Farder Coram thought-not unlike a fern plant when it has been pulled apart, a couple of stray, thin dark ringlets falling out of the loop and framing her face haphazardly like dusky down-feathers.

She had a dæmon, of course, but he was not present. She was a witch, and both the dæmons of witches and those of stars were known for being able to go a long distance away from their persons without the 'separation pains' kicking in. No matter how far apart they traveled, the link that connected them was never torn apart. It would not have been at all surprising if one of Mrs. Coulter's ambitions-back when she was alive-had been to experiment with this and see if what she called 'Intercision' worked on them or not, but no such opportunity ever presented itself to her in her life. After all, fairies and stars were not so easy to lure away as unwanted street urchins or Gyptian children; more row would be caused over them going missing-so it had been quite impossible.

Anyway, Serafina's dæmon was named Kaisa; he was a grey goose. Currently, he was acting as ruler of the Silver Sea. That was how it had to be; every other month, they switched places, and Serafina had to take leave of her husband, leaving Kaisa behind as a companion for Farder Coram's tabby-dæmon. Serafina Pekkala was clan queen by right of birth, which made her the successor to the throne when the former monarch passed away at the age of seventy thousand.

There was nothing Serafina would have liked better than to have become a full-time Gyptian wife; she wasn't troubled over the nomadic life-style of the vast majority of that race, or about cooking and cleaning, getting her hands dirty-none of that bothered her. But she was born with a sense of duty, and the way she saw it was that when she died, she would have to yield the throne in favor of whomever was next in line, but to abdicate prematurely seemed wrong, disgraceful somehow.

For, undoubtedly, though she hated thinking about it, she would out-live her husband. Witches and stars were always out-living their human lovers. It was a painful reality of their lives that there seemed no end to and no way out of, aside from-of course-not falling in love with humans in the first place. Her niece had been lonely for her Telmarine Gyptian lover, Caspian the first, for a very, very long time now. Her heart ached noticeably less only whenever she was in the presence of his tenth descendent, a kindly young man who happened to have a seagull dæmon of the same sex as himself, and also happened to be one of the few Gyptians who actually owned an estate, having inherited it after his disreputable Uncle Miraz had been killed in a duel. Farder Coram thought himself too old for his wife because of her ageless beauty, a stunning woman-barely more than a girl-with an old crippled nobody like himself; he often forgot that, really, Serafina was much older than him, even if she didn't look it.

In fact, poor Farder Coram still wasn't even sure why Serafina had chosen to love _him_ out of all men. She could have had anyone, someone who was still as 'young and beautiful' as this benevolent queen claimed he himself had been when they'd first met through his rescuing of her dæmon, and yet, she'd wanted him-old and broken man that he was, she wanted him. She hadn't even cared that he was too old to give her children, too old for her to have a proper family. No, there wasn't a single note-worthy objection he could have raised to her that would make her love him any less or not want, more than anything else, to become his wife. Nothing would please her without his proposal of marriage; and, of course, loving her in return, he'd eventually given in and let her have her own way.

There was a loud rustling outside the tent (the traveling-Gyptian equivalent of knocking) and at last Farder Coram woke up fully and opened his eyes all the way. Serafina did not stir, she stayed asleep.

"Farder Coram, there is a star outside the camp, come to see Serafina Pekkala. She says it is quite urgent."

Farder Coram's tabby blinked at the man's crane dæmon in acknowledgment and the crane nodded back at her.

"Serafina," said her husband softly, shaking her shoulder as carefully as if his beloved was made of glass and might fall off of the cushion and shatter if he should touch her too roughly. "Wake up. There's someone here to see you."

"Hmm?" Serafina stretched her legs, shifting them from the scrunched up manner she'd been sleeping with them in.

He repeated himself.

"All right, my love, I'm up." Her eyes were open now and she was sitting up on the cushion with her back perfectly straight.

The Gyptian man with the crane dæmon told her that her niece was waiting to speak with her.

It was a little chilly, so Serafina pulled a soft, sea-green shawl with laurel patterns embroidered round the edges Ma Costa had given her as a belated wedding gift around her shoulders before stepping out of the tent.

Farder Coram followed her but did not go all the way to greet Ramandu's daughter, getting a sort of idea that there might have been something private the fairy and the star needed to discuss. Besides, if it were any of his concern, he'd no doubts that Serafina would tell him when the time was right.

When Serafina came back to him-or rather, to where he was standing, waiting for her-she seemed anxious.

"Something's the matter," he said; it was not a question.

She nodded gravely. "Do you remember when we met on Lord John Faa's ship, the _Dawn Treader_?"

"How could I forget?" He smiled warmly at her, fighting back a worried frown. "I hadn't even known we'd met before that-through Kaisa."

"Yes," she sighed, her voice distant. "Well, you remember then what I told you that night, about the son of Edmund Coulter?"

"To look after him," said Farder Coram without hesitation; "that he was part of the solution to the ending of the tyranny of the Ruling Powers."

"The Ruling Powers have taken him prisoner." She kept her gaze bold and firm, but her expression was one that an ordinary person usually has when they are looking down at their feet. A regal fairy never looked down at her feet when talking about anything of importance. "That is what my niece was sent to tell me."

"What will they do to him now?" The yellow tabby's eyes widened in horror.

"It is uncertain," said Serafina. "While it is the daughters of Lord Asriel who will play the most important parts in what is to come, taking Edmund Belacqua out of the picture would be a terrible blow to all who wish to over-throw the Ruling Powers. All the more so since he's an alethiometrist.

"If the Ruling Powers can, they'll keep him alive, perhaps in hopes of getting him-likely by force-to complete the work his mother started. As someone on their side, he would have no right to question their authority, and, of course, he would be required to keep all that he now knows about Aslan and Dust to himself-act as if he'd never learnt it to begin with."

"Will he really side himself with the Ruling Powers, whatever them wicked people say or do to him, though?"

Serafina shook her head. "I wouldn't think so, not Edmund. They don't realize how strong and stubborn-and determined-he is. But they'll make it hard on him."

"What about Sarah's daughter?" Farder Coram had to know. "What happens to Lucy and Reepicheep now?"

"The stars report that she was not captured with him," Serafina told her husband. "It seems he hid her before they broke into his flat and took him prisoner."

"Where is she now?"

"We're not sure, that is one of the reasons I must leave at once. I must go and find Lee Scoresby, our old aeronaut friend. We hope that, if the stars can determine Lucy's location, he can go in his airship and take her on board before any harm befalls her. Then, once she is safe, we can try to rescue Edmund."

"God's speed, Wife," sighed Farder Coram, clasping her hands in his and squeezing them lightly. "Is there anything we-I mean, us Gyptians-can do?"

"I'm sure there is," Serafina Pekkala answered. "But, in the meantime, you must await further instruction. It will come."

When her husband released her hands, Serafina went back to the tent where, behind one of the interlocking draping cloths, she always kept her cloud-pine branch concealed. She needed it for flying and knew she daren't leave it out where it could be stolen or lost.

Less than an hour later, she had alighted her branch and was sitting on the railing of an airship, waiting for the aeronaut who steered it and his dæmon, a large artic hare called Hester, to notice her.

They had not seen her in over a year, and the last time had been at a distance, so for a moment the pair gaped at her, startled.

"Howdy, your Majesty," Lee Scoresby managed at last.

"Greetings, Scoresby." She spoke warmly, but her smile was faint, strained.

"Good day," said Hester.

"Is something wrong?" asked Scoresby after a moment of silence ticked by-a few seconds feeling like an hour.

She told him then of what had happened to Edmund Belacqua and of the stars' worry also for Lucy Pevensie.

"You have to understand, Mr. Scoresby," said Serafina urgently, not so much as a half-flicker passing through her serious, still eyes, "just how important this all is. If the Ruling Powers cannot keep the secret that are in fact billions of other worlds, other universes, a secret for ever as they hoped, they will seek to control every world even more firmly than they control this one. They may not have been able to extend their tyranny until now, but if they do find a way…nothing will stop them…nothing but the daughters of Lord Asriel, with the help of a certain young alethiometrist now held captive. We will help those children, that is our role in all of this. And we must not fail."

"No," said Lee Scoresby, Hester's nose twitching fearfully, as he steered his airship to the starboard side. "I reckon not."


	6. Deportation

Is it just me, Edmund found himself wondering, or does everything here in Svalbard smell like dead fish and seal guts?

Obviously, this wasn't what he should have been thinking, clearly the last thing he should have been worrying his head about, his dire circumstances considered, but he couldn't help it; that smell _was_ rather strong, especially in the cell where they'd put him.

'They', of course, were the guards and agents of the Ruling Powers. 'They' had come and taken him away from the flat, away from Lucy.

Poor, frightened Lucy, hidden under the trap-door in the wardrobe, trembling as likely as not, clutching Reepicheep, ignoring the heavy but well-distributed weight of the two alethiometers in her lap...

Tears sprung up into Edmund's eyes. No, he wouldn't-he couldn't-think about Lucy Pevensie...all alone in the flat after he was gone; taken…that was the one thing that could break him without effort. He was for ever grateful that the Ruling Powers and those who worked for them were unaware of his weakness. He hastily brushed his tears aside, glancing at Ella who blinked to clear her glassy eyes and ruffled the feathers on the back of her neck to hide the horrified, pained emotion she and her human felt.

It had been horrible, it still was. But, if nothing else, he was still alive. For whatever reason, they hadn't killed him. And if there was a way he could escape…then, freedom.

Certainly, though, he did have to face the over-all grimness of his situation. He _could_ do that, so long as he didn't let his mind drag Lucy and Reep into it. Indeed, he'd already, in something of a haze, recapped the events that had brought him to Svalbard.

There had been a struggle in the flat; the guards had to beat him senseless and their dæmons had had to sink their teeth into Ella simply to get him out the door to begin with. This fight had left some blood on the wall-most of it his, but not all of it. They'd taken the book Susan had brought back from Norroway and whatever charts or models of alethiometers they could locate. All of these had likely been destroyed. Or, at least, the charts and models were. As for the book, maybe they had destroyed it, too, but they might just as easy have locked it away again. Still, _he_ -the alethiometrist-wasn't likely to see it again, at any rate.

There was even the chance it had been put back into the restored church in Norroway where Iorek Byrnison's armour had once been kept. After all, before Edmund was taken to Svalbard to begin with, the guards had hauled him off to a small jailhouse in Norroway. They could have very easily just put it back there while they were at it.

Norroway's jailhouse hadn't been so terrible. It had smelled a bit like burnt coal and brimstone, and occasionally the prisoner in the next cell over would miss his chamber pot and the smell of excrement would mix with the brunt odor. But aside from that, it had been tolerable. The food had been all right, too. Nothing fancy, but the bread was only a little dry at worst; twice there had been boiled eggs that had been pretty good. The water they gave him to drink was clean as they apparently boiled their prisoner's water first to make sure it wasn't contaminated. It wasn't piping hot when they gave it to him, though still warmer than he would have preferred a so-called 'refreshment' to be.

Svalbard was worse. The water was probably just as clean, but it was frozen solid, largely just a cup with ice stuck to it-nothing more. The food, while sometimes actually edible, had gotten him quite sick at least twice.

Edmund knew a lot of the prisoners-at least those who had some vague idea as to who he was and why he was in there-must have thought him mad. He could have gotten out, and what had he done? He'd blown that chance. He wouldn't have been deported from Norroway if only he had done one thing that the Ruling Power's guards asked of him. However, Edmund refused. His refusal was flat and unyielding.

Sometimes at night, when he couldn't fall asleep, he still saw the scene played out on the back of his eyelids.

The uniformed man with a collie dæmon standing there, unsmiling, holding out a piece of paper; himself, sore as anything, resting his weary head against Ella's feathers, wondering what this was all about; and a pen with gold-plating on its cap being offered to his right hand.

"All you have to do, Edmund Coulter-" the guard began.

Edmund cut him off. "Edmund Belacqua, Sir." His voice had been hoarse but still understandable.

"What?"

"My surname is Belacqua."

"Whatever." The guard waved that off as if he had no time for such trivial matters. "Anyway, all you have to do is sign this piece of paper and you can go home."

"Home?" Edmund echoed in surprise. "What home?"

"Whatever home you've got."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

Ella's eyes glowed in the darkness of the cell, peering down like two bright lights at the paper. There was a touch of mild restrained relief crossing over the owl-dæmon's facial expression; also, suspicion as well.

"Explain," said Edmund, slowly.

"It's simple," said the guard. "It's merely a document that states you, former heretic and so-called alethiometrist, were not in your right mind when you made your claims. It states that you do not believe in a Lion named Aslan, and that all of your professions mentioning Dust, other worlds, and the like, were only figments of your imagination. You hereby abandon your rebellious faith and work. In turn, you also herein vow to support the Ruling Powers fully in your reformed life."

Edmund shook his head. "No."

The guard's brow crinkled. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"He means he won't sign," answered Ella for her human.

"Don't you realize what refusing to sign will mean for you, boy?" For a fleeting moment Edmund thought he saw a flickering cloud of pity and genuine concern forming in the guard's eyes, his expression slightly softened. "It will mean persecution. It will mean deportation."

"Deportation?" Edmund felt weaker all of a sudden, lightly pushing against the stone wall of the cell to keep himself upright. "To where?" He hated the quiver in his voice, yet he was unable to stifle it completely.

"Svalbard, kingdom of the ice bears," replied the guard grimly. "That's where they send dangerous criminals. But you're young, you know, very young. You're not a real threat; all you have to do is sign this, say you're only a pretender, not a real heretic, that you don't believe in all that nonsense and hogwash. That's all you need to do. Then you're free to go."

Edmund thought it over. He had faked documents before, plenty of times. This was different, though, and he knew it. This was stating, on a truly official document-not some imitation he bought for whatever reason, to cross this or that border or town barrier-that he didn't believe in the great Lion. This was denying everything he worked himself to the bone for; this was giving up. And who knew what swearing loyalty to the Ruling Powers would entail? They might want him to serve them as blindly and cruelly as his late mother had! No, it mustn't come to that.

Then, worse still, was the thought that if he signed it, even only in hopes of getting free and seeing her again, Lucy would be disappointed in him. What was more, he would be disappointed in himself; he couldn't do this and live with it. Aslan would be disappointed, too. Aslan, to whom he owed so much. If the Lion's roar had not steadied and strengthened him at the last minute, Edmund was certain that he would have perished attempting to cross the ice bridge. No, he daren't become a traitor; the alethiometrist could not deny all that he believed in-not for real, he couldn't.

His words to his mother back at Bolvangar once when she'd called out to him, wanting him with her, rang in his head. He meant them towards the Ruling Powers just as firmly as he meant it towards her and her lifestyle. As clearly as if he was screaming it presently at the top of his longs, he could hear that cry drumming in his ears and bursting out of his racing heart. _I'm not yours, I'll never be yours!_

"I can't sign it, I just can't."

"Why-ever not?"

"Because, it would be wrong."

"Boy, you would rather be deported?"

"We, my dæmon and I, have no wish to be taken to Svalbard, but we cannot sign this."

The guard tried for force the pen in-between his fingers now. "Just sign it!"

Edmund shook his head and Ella clanked her beak furiously. They wouldn't yield.

"In one hour," said the guard bitterly, no pity or traces of kindness to be found in his face or tone now, "another guard will come for you and take you out of this cell. Take one good look around at the sun in the moment you're outside in the fresh air; I doubt you will see it again after you're locked up in Svalbard."

To this, neither Edmund nor his dæmon, made any reply; they simply watched the man storm off in a huff, slamming the metal-and-bar door behind himself.

Ella tried to comfort her human, nuzzling his neck. "Don't worry, we'll be all right."

Edmund nodded and swallowed hard. He kept trying to remind himself that he had done the right thing, the only thing he could have done with a clean conscience. All the same, the thought of being deported made his heart sink.

To cheer himself, he finally managed, "Well, that's where the other book about alethiometers and Dust is. We may need it, since they've taken mine." He was half-joking, not at all sure he'd be able to get at that book, not even sure he'd ever step out of whatever cell they gave him there. He wasn't even sure if he would see Lucy ever again. But he hoped so. Hope and integrity was all the young, beaten alethiometrist had left.

Now, in Svalbard, where it was always cold, where he was always sick and hungry, not to mention in terrible pain, he kept on reminding himself that this was not the end. It couldn't be.

There was a time when he felt that no one could go against the Ruling Powers, that there was a reason they were in charge. It was Lucy, his brave, wonderful Lucy, who'd taught him to stand up for what was right. Whenever he felt himself giving way, weakening, wanting to end it all or else-worse-give in, promising to do whatever the Ruling Powers asked of him, he thought of her, of how proud she would be of him. Also, as he laid his head back down on an ice-cold floor, longing for the sunlight he was never given access to, he thought of Aslan. In his mind the Lion put a golden paw on his shoulder and said, "Well done."

They won't be in charge for ever, Edmund thought as his eyes closed, sleep over-taking him as it did every once in a while in spite of everything, even if I don't make it, the others will over-throw the Ruling Powers someday. Then things will be better and all this suffering will be worth something. This isn't in vain; there is a purpose, there is truth-and the alethiometers show it.

Meanwhile, what had happened to Lucy?

Still shaking and tears both shed and unshed gleaming steadily in her eyes, half-blinding her from time to time till she blinked and brushed them away, she had prepared to leave the flat. Of course she had to find Edmund; there was no alternative. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have done the same-if not more-for her. She couldn't leave him hanging out to dry. She might not have known where to look, but she figured she'd get directions somehow or other, anything was better than giving up.

So first she rummaged through Edmund's things, looking for anything that would be useful. Of her own things, there was precious little she felt inclined to take with her; the silver alethiometer, certainly, but not much else really.

The Ruling Powers had done a thorough job of taking Edmund's charts and alethiometer models as well as his research papers, but his day-to-day things, such as his clothing, seemed unimportant to them and so they'd left all that alone. Lucy borrowed one of his tunics, a dark blue-almost black-one with faded crimson embroidery on the lower half of it, save for where the pattern was coming loose at the seams. Boys' clothes would be easier to travel in, not to mention make her less noticeable than otherwise, and she didn't think Ed would mind. She also stuffed her hair into a gray woolen cap of his. With the dwarf-sword strapped to her lower waist, Lucy really could have almost passed for a boy. A boy in his elder brother's hand-me-downs (all of Edmund's things were too big on her-his shoes hopelessly so-and she had to make use of several straps, buckles, and belts to keep everything in place), but a boy all the same.

The two alethiometers and her dagger fit into her pouch which she strapped around her middle amidst the leather belts and dwarf-sized scabbard. A pack for carrying food and extra clothes was on her back. Reepicheep consented to ride on her shoulder, trying to look as unassuming and casual as possible. He hoped that other peoples' dæmons wouldn't get too close to him and figure out that he was male; they might assume Lucy was just one of the few persons who had a dæmon of the same sex as herself, but they might just as readily detect the truth and wonder what she was doing, going about in disguise like that. And if they should start to ask questions…no, that wouldn't be good.

"We'll have to keep as far away from crowds as possible, Reep," said Lucy as she crept over to the flat's broken door, out into the hallway.

"What about the bridge on the creek?" Reepicheep wondered aloud. "The toll? Remember those papers Edmund had? They're gone; the Ruling Powers must have snatched them up, too."

"What do you think they'll say when they see my name on there?" Lucy wondered aloud, worried. She knew Edmund wouldn't tell them about her, and that was the scariest part. If they threatened him, he would probably succumb to a fatal beating before he sold out Lucy, or even so much as hinted at who she really was. The paper may have had a false surname for her; but they might see through that.

Reepicheep shuddered, clinging more tightly to his human's arm so as not to fall. Lucy felt as if she had pinched herself very hard there; it was all pins and needles until Reepicheep regained his balance and stopped wavering.

"I guess it's a good thing we're not going out as ourselves, then."

Lucy swallowed hard. "We can't let them see us at the bridge. We might be recognized. You remember what Edmund said, though? About his being able to jump from one side to the other without much difficulty?"

"You think we could make that jump?"

"We'll have to."

"What do we do when we get to the other side? Where do we go from there?"

"I don't know," Lucy admited. "But at least going will mean trying; we'll figure it out somehow."

"Maybe if we went to the Gyptians," Reepicheep suggested. "They should be near Jordan this time of year…Farder Coram would help us. The Costas, too."

Lucy sighed, "I wish we had a map." Edmund had folded his map and used it as a bookmark; so when the Ruling Powers took the book, they got the map, too. "Never mind, we'll get directions somehow, once we're on the other side of the creek."

Everything was quiet and perfectly still as Lucy tied the food pack to the bicycle she and Edmund had used to carry the groceries what felt like so long ago.

Reepicheep jumped off of her arm and into the basket on the handlebars.

"Of course we can't take the bicycle passed the creek," Lucy said, climbing on. "Not if we're going to jump over it. But it will get us there quicker."

She pedaled as speedily as her legs would let her. When she heard a trickle of water in the distance, Lucy made sure to travel upstream and out of sight, among the thickest trees. It got so tight every once in a while that she got a smack across the face from a twig and several dry leaves caught on Ed's tunic, but she managed it in the end.

Finally, she climbed off the bicycle, covered it up with leaves so it wasn't in plain sight, and studied the part of the creek she stood on the banks of. It wasn't deep, nor very wide, but it was a little wider than the downstream parts of it were. Edmund could have still cleared it, probably. Peter, definitely. Lyra, maybe. As for herself, she was a little unsure. There was no other way, however, so she braced herself and made a running jump (Reepicheep was clinging to her shoulder again), hoping the pack wouldn't weigh her down too much.

Within a few seconds she found herself mostly on the other side. At least, her upper body was. Her legs dangled into the stream, getting the bottom of Ed's tights wet. It took a bit of struggling with white knuckles and mud-stained limbs before Lucy was laid-out on her back, squashing her pack under her, slightly breathless, on the other side of the creek. Edmund's cap was askew and a lock of her hair had escaped it. Hastily, she sat up and stuffed the loose strands back into place.

"Come on, Reep." Lucy started fast-walking through the trees.

On the one hand, Lucy hoped to run into someone so she could get directions to Jordan college-it would be near tragic if she got there too late and the Gyptians had moved on by the time she reached her destination. If that happened she would have to come up with another plan, which, at the moment, she was too tired for. On the other hand, however, she dreaded any confrontation with a stranger, frightened that it might be the undoing of everything. What would she say if they asked her why she wanted to get to Jordan? What if her voice gave her gender away even if Reepicheep didn't?

For a few days, her fears were a bit moot. She was wandering through over-grown fields of a sort, dotted with yew trees. If she stood on tip-toe and squinted, she could see a town, only she was still undecided as to whether it would be a good idea to go into it or not.

Suddenly, something-or someone-grabbed her from behind.

Lucy started to scream and Reepicheep thrashed about wildly before a hand clasped over his human's mouth.

There was a continued struggle for a moment until a familiar-looking dæmon, an artic hare, bounded out and stood nose-to-nose with Reepicheep.

Lucy's heavy breathing lessened, as did her panic. There was nothing to be frightened of, she saw now. It was only Lee Scoresby, the aeronaut, and his Hester. Her pupils slid over to him, her neck turning half-way. When he realized she had stopped trying to scream, he let go of her mouth and put his finger to his lips.

He was more or less how she remembered him; a cowboy with white hair and a white mustache. She hadn't seen him in a long while, and it was a relief to see an old friend again. Although she had a million questions to ask him, starting with how he had found her so quickly, he was still hinting for her to be quiet and to follow him silently. She did so.

It took her a ways back from where she had traveled, through a few more trees, to a more open clearing. There, he had left his airship.

"I reckon it'd be safe to speak here, Miss Lucy." Lee Scoresby winked at her; Hester twitched her nose in a friendly manner at Reepicheep.

"Mr. Scoresby," gasped Lucy, almost too happy for words. "How did you find me?"

"The stars tracked you down, and the witch queen gave me directions," he said, taking her hand and helping her onto the airship. "I assume you didn't think to start on any kind of scout without bringing food?"

"No," said Lucy, hesitantly, "but I am almost out now." She motioned at her dropping pack, which looked like it had seen much better days in the past.

"No matter," he said as she took a seat. "I've got plenty to eat on board, feel free to help yourself to the fixins." He pulled a blanket over her shoulders. "You look cold," he explained.

"You know about Edmund and Ella, then?" Reepicheep asked.

Hester nodded.

"I was thinking of going to tell the Gyptians," Lucy said, washing down some sort of hard, western-flavored cheese with a tin mug of what was either fruit juice or very weak wine.

Lee Scoresby felt he wanted a bit of beer or some whiskey, but he knew better than to drink and drive his airship at the same time, and he was well-aware that they would have to take off soon.

Turning his eyes away from the cask in the corner so as not to even be tempted, he replied to Lucy's question. "Them Gyptian fellers already know. They knew before I did. Queen Serafina's husband was probably amongst the first to know."

"Serafina Pekkala is married?" This was the first Lucy had heard of it. "To a Gyptian?"

"To Farder Coram."

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed sincerely. Farder Coram was one of her favourite persons in the world, even if she hadn't seen him in a long time.

Lee Scoresby smiled. Then, "Now, about Edmund, we know where he is."

"Where?" She held her breath.

"In Svalbard."

Lucy nearly choked. "S-s-svalbard?" she stammered out.

"The witches are trying to come up with a notion on how to spring him."

"What about Iorek?" Reepicheep piped up, his voice shrill with anxiety.

"Iorek?" The old cowboy's gray brow crinkled. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He's an armoured bear, an ice bear," Lucy said. "Can't he go there and…and…I don't know…try to get Edmund out? I know he'd want to help-Iorek, I mean."

"He would _want_ to be of assistance, Miss Lucy," sighed Lee Scoresby, shaking his head. "But if he shows up there, he'll be torn to pieces."

"What?"

"Haven't you guessed? Iorek's an exile, he can never return safely to Svalbard; that's why he was in Norroway in the first place, when Mrs. Coulter went and got him wasted and let them take his armour."

"Poor Iorek!" cried Lucy, shocked, dismayed, and distressed all at once. "I never knew. What happened?"

"If he wants you to know, I reckon he'll tell you himself someday, Miss. If not…well, then, it's hardly my place."

"I see."

"Anyway, I got to keep you in my charge for a little while."

"Why?"

"Because, the witches hired me on to protect you." He began to start up the airship's engine. "You'll be with me about a day or so, at least."

"What happens after that?"

"Well," he told her, "you remember Lord John Faa?"

"The Gyptian King?"

"That's the feller." The airship's engine made a whirring noise. "Anyway, I'm supposed to take you meet him, in the shipping port at Trollesund. You'll be safe with him and his men."

"But that isn't going to help Edmund," Lucy realized, her eyes narrowing. "Trollesund and Svalbard aren't close at all." She _could_ remember that much, even without a map for guidance. Trollesund, unless she was mistaken, was closer to Norroway than anywhere else. It simply wasn't as far north as she would need to be if she was going to rescue him from the ice bears and the Ruling Powers.

The ship lifted off the ground. "You have to trust us," Hester said, her long ears going down, then pricking back up.

"I have to help him." Her fingers wrapped around the dwarf-sword's hilt.

"You will," the aeronaut promised. "Just not alone."

Lucy yawned; there was something about flying up in an airship after walking for days and days in the outdoors that made one feel very sleepy. She snuggled down in a corner where the wind didn't smack at her when Scoresby made a sudden turn, put her arm around Reepicheep as if she were a small child holding onto a stuffed bear after waking up from a horrible nightmare, and blacked out for a few hours.


	7. The Return to Professor Kirke

"I still don't see why I couldn't drive," said Peter, his tone somewhere between frustrated and sullen. "It _is_ my father's car, after all."

"Shut up, Pevensie." Lord Asriel spoke without even taking his eyes off of the road.

"I bet he's going to drive us right over a cliff," Maugrim commented darkly.

"We're in a car with a man who once tried to kill me and also happens not to have a driving permit," Susan grumbled, her expression more or less identical to Maugrim's current snarling lip-curl as she folded her arms across her chest. "We're all going to end up in prison." She scowled at the back of her husband's head. "This is against the law, knowingly enabling someone without a permit to operate a vehicle; you do know that, Peter, don't you?"

"We're doomed," whimpered Pantalaimon, his body draped across Lyra's shoulders. "Susan's right, we're all going to prison."

"Hush, Pan." Lyra twisted her neck to give her dæmon a scathing glance. "Won't you ever learn to be less of a coward?"

"If you ask me," said Peter, twisting his own neck backwards from the passenger seat to speak to Lyra, choosing to ignore Susan for the moment, knowing she was in rather a plaguey mood (though not without understandable reason), "a little less courage wouldn't kill you, Lyra. Pan is the only thing that keeps you from charging everywhere at once with a sword strapped to your hip, challenging anyone who gets in your way to a duel."

"By the way, Pevensie's wife," said Lord Asriel, his eyes finally tearing away from the road before them, in a gruff, half-patronizing, half-'oh do shut it' sort of voice, "I wouldn't worry about prison in this world. A silly, empty-headed, useless woman like yourself, wouldn't survive a minute under the Ruling Power's torture…worry about _that_."

"I was not addressing _you_ ," scoffed Susan. Maugrim bared his teeth and growled at Stelmaria, who did not even grace his anger with so much as a passing glance.

"That does it," said Peter, "I've had quite enough. I'm not letting someone who bribes his way into my home and then insults my wife right in front of me drive my father's car."

"There's nowhere to pull over," Lord Asriel lied unflinchingly.

"What about them miles and miles of countryside we're passing?" Lyra retorted, sticking up for Peter and Susan, while still secretly admiring her father's certainty and unwavering ways maybe just a little bit.

"Don't be insolent, Lyra, or we'll leave you here."

"We'll do nothing of the kind," Peter assured her, gritting his teeth.

Lyra shrugged her shoulders, ignoring Pantalaimon's slight tremble. She wasn't the least bit worried about getting left behind anywhere. Even if she was, sooner or later someone would have to remember that she was the only one with an alethiometer; and there was a good chance that they would need it.

After much debate back and forth, they'd finally all agreed-some with more grousing than others-that it might be a good idea to go and see the Professor. It had, Peter especially remembered, been the professor's wardrobe that had first taken Lucy and Reepicheep (and himself) into that other world what felt like lifetimes ago. Also, it was 'Uncle Kirke' who had entrusted the silver alethiometer into Lucy's keeping. And, if nothing else, Professor Kirke had a dæmon, being one of the people who'd brought baby Lucy from that world to the Pevensies' household; he was as likely as anyone to have ideas about interworld travel.

Susan had, at realizing this, grumbled that if they were going to seek help from 'Uncle Kirke' then there was no reason they needed Lord Asriel, too. Peter disagreed, and so had Lyra, which irked her to no end. Now they were, against her better judgment, driving out to that great college in the middle of nowhere with Lord Asriel in the driver's seat. Yes, this was getting out of hand-and it had only just begun! Who knew what madness Asriel would lead them into? This had better be worth it, she thought despairingly, doubting that it would be.

"You don't even know which way we're going!" Peter snapped at Lord Asriel, his temper more than a little lost by this point. "We're probably lost."

"I knew all along," Susan here remarked in a faux-demure, short huff, her eyelids lowered in a superior manner, "that we really ought to have taken a train."

"Then you really should have said something at the time." Peter suddenly turned on her, despite the fact that most of his current (and past, too, when he really thought about it) anger toward Lord Asriel was on account of the way the heartless, end-justifies-the-means, nobleman treated her.

"You never listen to us," said Maugrim, his voice still having the ring of 'growling' to it. "Maybe we were tired of wasting our breath."

"That's right," Susan muttered, nodding at her dæmon.

Peter's light eyebrows came close together and his mouth opened automatically.

Before he could say something he was going to regret, however, there was a wrenching sound from the seat next to Susan's; and Lyra was holding her stomach, Pan's eyes looking dazed and glassy.

A bad stench reached Peter and Lord Asriel's noses at the same time and they winced. Stelmaria, from the middle space between the driver and passenger's seats, where she had spent most of the ride, let out a deep, cat-like groan.

Peter's sympathetic nature won out his saying anything about his father's likely reaction to vomit being all over the upholstery of the vehicle. He made Lord Asriel pull over, not taking any excuses this time.

"How is it that she doesn't get sick on a Gyptian boat or in Marisa's Zeppelin, but she suddenly takes ill at the least convenient moment?" Lord Asriel said this mostly to himself, and of course Stelmaria, but everybody else heard him anyway.

It was true that Lyra didn't suffer much from sea-sickness and that she had a knack for solid, unblemished traveling as a general rule, but that hardly made the situation at hand her fault.

Oddly, it was Susan who was most unpleasantly effected by the thoughtless comment, rather than Lyra. Lyra, getting out of the car to stretch her legs and to vomit-if she still needed to, since most of it was all over the back of the passenger seat-didn't process or mediate much on the coldness of Lord Asriel's words. Susan, on the other hand, did. It wasn't so much what he said about Lyra as it was how coolly he just mentioned her dead mother. 'Marisa's Zeppelin', just like that; nothing more, nothing less. For someone who was supposedly in love with the late Mrs. Coulter, he sure didn't act like it. For someone torn up over her death which had largely been his fault, his way of saying her name was callous.

Thinking logically, Susan figured she was over-tired and was simply reading too much into it. Anyway, even if there had been a time when she'd loved her mother, even if she owed her life to her mother since the golden monkey dæmon's end was Maugrim's salvation, that was all in the past. She was Susan Pevensie now. And, truly, there had never been a moment-not even when she was upset with Peter for different reasons-she had been sorry about that or so much as vaguely regretted what she'd given up to be with him. And Marisa Coulter was dead, her sins and cruelties a thing of the past, atoned for by death. Lord Asriel, though, was still alive; she could still hate him, and this tasteless remark seemed like yet another reason for doing so.

When Lyra was feeling better, and Lord Asriel was-very reluctantly-seated in the passenger seat, Peter taking the wheel, they all started off again.

The smell of vomit was still potent, so they all kept their mouths shut. Both Stelmaria and Maugrim crouched low in the car, each having a paw over their noses.

Finally they all arrived at a place that looked familiar and Peter stopped the car in front of a lush campus guarded by two gleaming brass boar-hound statues stationed in front of an iron gate.

Maugrim stood nose-to-nose with one of the boar-hounds until Susan grabbed him by the back of the neck, reminding him that they had to mind their business and that the hounds were clearly fake, besides. The wolf-dæmon yawned, making no reply except to follow his mistress.

It was funny, Peter thought, taking in the look of the place after so much time (for him) had passed. When he'd first shown up there as a frightened, fourteen year old boy who's father was in the war and who's little sister needed to be protected from goodness-knew-what, the college had been over-powering and breath-taking. There was still an almost magical element about it, along with a strange, unexpected homey feeling as well, but things weren't the same at Uncle Kirke's college now that he was older. It wasn't that the place had changed, he knew, seeing that every single vine of twinkling ivy seemed just as he remembered it; it was _he_ who had changed. Peter had been through so much since he'd last been there.

In all this time, since returning to the world he was born into, he hadn't come back to the Professor's college. He had a university in the city to attend, for one. And, for another, he was just plain busy with life and family. He had written to Digory, of course, to tell him about the various things that had happened, but as for coming to visit the man face-to-face, this would be the first time in years.

A woman with her graying hair in a neat bun on the top of her head met them at the gate. She was an imposing lady, her no-nonsense face creased with an unfading frown, but Peter knew she didn't mean any harm…probably. Her name was Mrs. Macready, and she was the professor's long-time housekeeper. She was diligent, which had likely been the reason she'd never been threatened with the sack, and she kept any rift-raft at bay. The only real strike against her was that hound-like face and that permanently stern expression etched upon it so disagreeably it made the statues look friendly and inviting, even beautiful, by comparison.

"Mrs. Macready!" exclaimed Peter with a slightly put-on grin. "Remember me?"

She sighed heavily as if he'd caused her endless troubles, although they had actually said very little to each other during his brief stay with her employer.

"You must be here to see the Professor," she said in a flat monotone. "Who are all these others?" She motioned at Susan, Lord Asriel, and Lyra. Also, she frowned at Stelmaria, not liking the idea of a big wild animal roaming around the hallways, mucking up the carpets she had spent the morning vacuuming. Maugrim didn't escape her notice, but for some reason she disliked him a little less than the leopard. Perhaps she thought he was a dog; she'd always been-secretly-rather fond of dogs, as long as they were well-trained and minded their manners.

"Thank you, Mrs. Macready," a voice from behind her said. "I'll take it from here."

They stood still and waited for the white-haired man in the ruffled suit to come a little closer. He did, but at his own pace.

Then, "Well, well! Peter Pevensie! Helen's boy. It's been a while." He opened the iron fence and shook his hand heartily. "I'll have you know I was deeply disappointed when you went to university in the city. If you wanted education, well, you only had to ask."

Peter went a little red in the face. "I didn't want to be a bother, Sir." He motioned over towards Susan. "And I have a wife and child to think about."

"So you mentioned in your letters," Professor Kirke noted. Smiling at Susan, he said, "And I'm pleased to meet you, of course. His letters describing you did not do you justice."

"Oh, really?" Susan arched a brow at Peter.

Peter squirmed uncomfortably. "Let me know when 'pick on Peter' time is over, all right?" he muttered to his feet.

"So where's the little boy?" At least five of the letters the professor had gotten mentioned Christian.

"At home," said Susan, "with his grandparents." _Where it's safe_ , she added to herself.

Maugrim barked, noticing the little robin that sat on Professor Kirke's right shoulder. The bird-dæmon winked down at him.

Peter then remembered Lord Asriel, Lyra, and the reason for their visit. This was not a social call; there wasn't much more time for mindless chit-chat or catching up, something had to be done-or at least discussed.

"Sir," he began, clearing his throat, "this is-"

"I know who he is," the professor interrupted, looking to the visitor. "You go about your duty the wrong way, and you offend reason with your justifications. Nevertheless, if it's really answers you want, then I'll gladly assist you-if only for the sake of the destruction of the Ruling Powers-but if it's only to scoff, or condemn; or if you're planning something…something… _unconventional_ , we'll say, then there is nothing more to be said between us."

"Answers!" Lord Asriel huff-chuckled indignantly. "Answers, indeed! You cower here, in this rummy hole of a world-"

"Hey now!" Peter protested, defending his world.

Lord Asriel ignored him and went on. "-instead of fighting like a man."

"Asriel," said Digory in a soft, unfazed voice, "I think you know perfectly well that I am where I was needed the most. Someone had to look over your daughter-Sarah's daughter-and it certainly wasn't going to be you, now was it? You never flinched when Farder Coram, myself, and the others were reported to have left with your dead wife's child. No, before you speak, let me finish." He held up his palm. "I decided long ago, Lord Asriel, to believe that it wasn't heartlessness, however much of it you have often displayed, that caused your reaction to us taking her; I believe that it really was your final gift to Lady Sarah, letting Lucy go. Also, I believe that you knew she needed to be protected and that while Jordan College could suffice for Lyra, it wasn't the place for Lucy-not at the time, anyway. You were not the one who betrayed her, though you betrayed many others, including your wife, so any feelings I may have towards you-be they of distain or not-are moot. I want to help, I've made that clear. What the Ruling Powers are doing is wrong. But, and listen carefully, I want give my assistance in the right way, not causing suffering to the innocent."

"The right way." A bitter chuckle came from Lord Asriel, a similar sarcasm-laced growl forming in Stelmaria's throat. "What right way? Has there ever been any situation with high stakes like these where no one has gotten hurt? You live life in a fairy-tale if you believe that, Digory."

Any other housekeeper would have been gazing on at them, eavesdropping, listening in amazement, wondering what on earth they were all talking about; Mrs. Macready, though, had long ago mastered the ability of shutting her ears to 'master's talk', and she waited as uncomprehendingly as the boar statues for orders.

"Set the table for tea, Mrs. Macready," the professor sighed at last. "I will entertain my guests inside; there are matters for us to discuss."

So they all went through the iron gates and followed the professor into the college's main building.

Peter noticed that there was an old sound missing; he couldn't hear the fountain trickling distantly as he had when he had come there with Lucy before. He asked the professor about it.

"Oh, well, yes, the fountain has been shut down for an unspecified amount of time." He coughed into a handkerchief he pulled out from his pocket.

"Don't it work anymore?" Lyra asked; she had never been there before, nor had she known anything about a fountain, but she was curious all the same. Pan's ears twitched forward.

"I think it does," said Professor Kirke. "I do think so. It's just…something, er, _odd_ …has been going on with it these last couple of weeks, and it's spooking some of the students."

"What do you mean by odd?" Peter wanted to know, getting rather an eerie feeling. Something in the professor's tone when he said 'odd' wasn't quite right; it almost sounded as if 'odd' was a substitute word for the term 'other worldly'.

"I'll explain that later," he promised. "For now, we'll all go to tea and talk about what's happened and what we must do."

Tea was served in one of the private retiring rooms. This was especially an honour for Lyra, as, growing up at Jordan, most retiring rooms used by the professors and masters and advanced scholars had been off-limits to her. Her views of them had been all on the sly, however extensive they were-thanks to her daring nature. Lord Asriel felt it was only his due; he had always been important in places of learning and had dined in several regal retiring rooms during his life. Susan had the sensation of going back in time, recalling both her short stay at Jordan after marrying Peter and her previous wealthy life with her noblewoman mother. It was surreal to be surrounded by so many fine things (polished peach-wood table in the shape of an oval, richly-coloured walls, tapestries of blood-red and scarlet) after all that had happened.

But if it was an almost dream-like experience for her, it was even more so for Peter. The retiring room was full of ghosts from his past. Memories of Lucy, of the look on the Lord Professor's face when he realized that he had been one of the men who'd brought Lucy to his parents' house in the first place eight years before, of hope and of despair.

It was very ironic, Peter thought, how everything had come round full circle in the end; Lucy was once again in another world, some place where he couldn't protect her, and he was once again determined to get to her and keep her safe.

After everyone had sat down and had a good tuck-in of cream-puffs, butter cookies, garlic bread, and some sort of white-and-gold sugar-topped cake with cherries, all washed down with tea (coffee for Lord Asriel, Professor Kirke, and Lyra), Peter explained why he and Susan thought something was amiss in that other world.

Professor Kirke listened, smoking his pipe thoughtfully. Then, when Peter had finished his account, he said, "And you haven't seen Dust since that morning at the window?"

"No," he replied.

"I did," Lyra admited, lifting Pan up onto the side of the table where he balanced silkily on the corner without getting in anybody's way. "Back when me and Pan was in the ruined subway-that was the last time."

"I see."

"So, what knowledge have you of potential portals in this world?" said Lord Asriel, cutting right to the chase.

"Not much at the moment," he told them, glancing over at his robin-dæmon perched in the rafters above their heads. "The links between this world and others-especially the one we need to reach-have gotten fewer."

"I thought," said Peter, a little shakily, "of writing to you about...about perhaps examining the wardrobe that first took Lucy and Reep back to their birth world; but I remembered a letter you'd sent me almost a year ago about us not expecting any more interaction by that door."

"I'm afraid it's true." The professor took a deep breath and puffed even more heavily on his pipe after re-filling it with tobacco from the silver-apple-holder the housekeeper had brought to him upon his orders a few moments before. "I thought, for a while, that perhaps there might still be a link there…I'm quite certain now, though, that there isn't one any longer. Not in that world, leading through our wardrobe and back to this college; and not in this world, leading into their realm."

"Then you don't have any leads?" Susan looked rather despairing. "At all?" A faint whimper came from Maugrim under the table.

"No, my dear, it's not so bad as that." The professor smiled at her, reaching over and patting her hand reassuringly. "Remember what I said about the fountain?"

She nodded. Peter's eyes widened. Lyra nearly spat out the sip from the second cup of coffee she was in the process of inhaling. Lord Asriel blinked condescendingly, but his intense interest was not hidden by this cool, at ease, reaction.

"I suspect it has recently become a portal somehow, but only when it's filled with water. Otherwise, it's just an empty fountain. And even when it does have water, it's not always a portal. This is only my suspicion, you understand."

"Your suspicions might not be of use to us," Lord Asriel said dryly.

"Then by all means, Asriel," said Professor Kirke, his eyebrows raised, a sardonic ring in his calm, old voice, "if you would rather go to the Northern Lights in this world and see if you can make a door in them…after all it worked _so_ well the last time…" He snapped his eyes from Lord Asriel to Susan.

Pacified for the moment, Lord Asriel, his glare hardened, continued listening to the rest of what the professor had to say in silence.

"I don't know that we have sufficient energy to take us through, or where we would get it from." The robin-dæmon flew down from the rafters and landed on her human's shoulder as he finished speaking.

Lord Asriel looked over at Susan. "You're sure that boy of yours…what's his name?" He paused, trying to remember. "Tristan? No, wait, Christian. That's right, Christian. You're sure he was born without any signs of having a dæmon? No chance of his ever-"

But Lord Asriel was not to finish his sentence because Susan shot up, flinging her chair backwards, looking like she was going to kill him. "How dare you?" she began heatedly. "How dar-"

Without a word, Mrs. Macready picked up the chair and put it back in place. Peter gripped Susan's elbow and pulled her down into it. "Susan, please."

"Did you hear what he-"

"Yes, Su, I did. But it's all nonsense; we both know he doesn't have a dæmon. Christian is perfectly safe, I swear." He rubbed the side of her arm consolingly.

Susan's cheeks flushed as she realized how close she'd come to making a scene, but she didn't feel a bit sorry for it on Asriel's account, only on account of her own potential embarrassment.

"And, Lord Asriel," Peter said warningly; "that's enough."

Stelmaria bared her teeth and Peter remembered what it felt like to have those teeth sinking into his neck, and cringed. He was starting to regret having allowed himself to involve Lord Asriel in this. Maybe Susan was right, maybe they didn't need him, maybe they should have just gone to the professor on their own. It was too late now. Besides, so long as they could keep everyone civil, and Lord Asriel in line, they might just manage. This was for Edmund and Lucy after all. Nothing was too strenuous for them, nothing. Not even dealing with this strong-willed nobleman.

"Bre-ah-hem!" The professor loudly clearing his throat broke the awkward silence and the conversation was continued in relative peace, despite the over-all tension that still hung over everybody.

That night, in one of the spare rooms Professor Kirke had loaned them the use of, Peter could tell Susan was not really asleep. Maugrim was tossing and turning at the foot of the bed, his ears flicking back and forth at the slightest sound; and Susan's eyes were scrunched up too tightly for her to actually be comfortable enough for sleep to claim her.

"Su…" Peter hardly knew what else to say, but still attempted to comfort her, reaching across the bed and slipping his arm around her waist.

She smiled faintly and scooted backwards, leaning closer to him. Maugrim, while still fidgety, seemed a little more at ease-at least, his ears flattened and his breathing grew less heavy.

"You're scared?" said Peter, after a few moments of lying there in silence, holding her.

Susan sighed. "Yes. Anyone would be; a person who isn't is probably a fool."

"Lord Asriel doesn't seem afraid."

"Hmm, I rest my case." Susan's lips curled into a grimace before settling back down.

"Amen," muttered Maugrim, snorting.

"Christian is safe, you know."

"I know, I just…" she rolled over in his grasp so that they were facing each other, their foreheads touching. "…I can't help reacting like that. When Lord Asriel so much as mentions him-even in passing-I feel like he's slapped me across the face. It's a mother thing, I suppose. Otherwise there's nothing logical about it, and that isn't like me."

"I understand," Peter told her. "I don't trust him either, and there's nothing I like less then hearing him speak about Christian lightly. Especially considering that he almost killed both of you before the poor boy was even born. We were all traumatized by the intercisions. To be honest, I think Lyra got it the worst of everybody; she just hides it well."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, think about it," he said slowly, "first she finds out that she's not an orphan after believing all her life that she was one, that the man she thought to be her uncle was really her father, and the woman who took her from Jordan College on false hopes and pretences was her mother. Then, she finds Roger, her best friend, cut away from his dæmon, only to witness his inevitable death shortly afterwards. At least we still have each other, to get through all this, but who does she have?"

Feeling cold all of a sudden, Susan shivered. What must it be like, she wondered brokenly, to have _nothing_? Nothing other than your dæmon for trustworthy company. Not even a lover, a husband, to hold and comfort you in the middle of the night. She rolled back over, facing away from Peter, though his arm was still around her, and closed her eyes.

In another room, Lyra rested with her elbows propped against the open window, Pantalaimon sitting on the sill. She couldn't sleep and she was too tired to work the alethiometer at the moment, however many questions she had. Besides, some of those questions weren't the sort the alethiometer was meant to answer, she figured. Most of them were lonely questions.

Why were there streams of silly tears leaking out of her eyes without reason? Why was Pan so quiet and pensive, not wanting to speak to her (nor she to him)? Why after all this time was she still thinking about Roger? And why, with no warning, was it that she suddenly couldn't _stop_ thinking about him? And missing him, terribly.


	8. Gyptian Comfort

Lee Scoresby's airship reached Trollesund a whole day later than he had expected; this was due to bad weather. But, all and all, the delay wasn't particularly substantial. And, very soon, he would be able to deliver Lucy to Lord John Faa safe and sound.

It was a busy port, people had their own business to mind, so if anyone thought it was odd to see a tired-looking girl with a mouse-dæmon in well-worn boys' clothes that were too big on her, a single loose lock of her brown hair sticking out from under a red-and-black hunter's hat with wool ear-flaps (Scoresby had lent it to her), trotting wearily but steadily alongside an old cowboy and his hare-dæmon nobody said anything to them about it.

In Lucy's opinion, the port in Trollesund was actually very similar to the port in Norroway; the same sort of ships-some Gyptian owned, others not; the same look and smell of parcels, packaging crates, and fish; even the people and buildings-to her exhausted eyes, at least-looked very much the same.

Reepicheep let out a little piping shriek of surprise, almost falling over in the process before he composed himself and regained his balance. Lucy lurched, taken aback. Lee Scoresby gripped her elbow to keep her up straight.

They had been startled by the presence of a large grey goose swooping down low. It was not an ordinary bird, but, rather, a dæmon, though his mistress seemed to be nowhere in sight. It was, in a way, to any dæmons who sensed him and knew what he was, a bit like seeing a floating head.

"I think it's a nice dæmon," Lucy said, when she caught her breath.

"I believe it's Serafina Pekkala's Kaisa," Reepicheep added.

"I reckon it'll be a mighty good thing if your dæmon's guess is right, Miss Lucy," said Lee Scoresby, plucking thoughtfully at the white whiskers on the lower part of his chin. "That would mean that the goose will tell Lord John Faa we're here. I was hopin' the delay didn't cause him any real worry."

"Look!" Hester hopped onto a nearby stack of empty pine-wood crates and twitched her nose up at the sky; Kaisa seemed to be coming back towards them again.

The grey goose let out a honk and motioned with his beak for them to follow him.

"Come on, this way." Lucy scooped up Reepicheep, clutching him in the folds of her arms as she followed the goose-dæmon.

Lee Scoresby, quickly stopping at a booth, flicking a couple silver-coloured coins into the owner's money jar and hastily picking up a small box of tobacco cigars which he tucked away into a sack containing playing cards and a fair-sized engraved flask of whiskey for later, was right behind her. Hester kept her eyes on Reepicheep and Kaisa at all times so as to make sure her master did not lose the trail-or Lucy-in the crowd.

They traveled along a narrow alley with a canal to their right for a mile or so before Kaisa alighted on a wire fence at the start of a junk yard not unlike the one Iorek used to work in. At his right, was a sleek crow-dæmon with a long, regal beak, her beady eyes at once familiar to Lucy and Reep. Then, as they could have easily predicted from the second they saw the crow, there came the large, thick-set, form of the Gyptian King, John Faa.

Lucy placed Reepicheep down on the part broken cobblestone, part loose gravel ground near the fence. The mouse-dæmon bowed; his human managed a slightly wobbly curtsey and smiled in a strained manner before reaching out and squeezing John Faa's hand, clinging to his arm like he was a long-lost uncle.

Lord Faa placed his large palm down on Lucy's head. "It's good to see you again, Child." To Scoresby, he added, "Well done. Serafina Pekkala herself announced that you would be the one to bring her to me."

"Is," Lucy wondered aloud, letting go of the Gyptian king's arm and craning her neck slightly to see past him where a few other Gyptians were standing, "…is Farder Coram here, too?" Reepicheep stood on the tips of his toes and sniffed seemingly at nothing, looking in the same direction as his mistress.

"He sure is," said John Faa, smiling.

As it happened, Serafina was right, further instruction had come to Farder Coram and many of the other Gyptians in his clan (including Billy Costa and his mother) to join up with the king upon his arrival before he set out for Trollesund. This had involved a great deal of rushing to get everyone together in time, especially for Farder Coram who's weak legs hurt him even when he wasn't limping any more than usual, but it was all taken in stride. Besides, many Gyptians, however much more 'sophisticated' people might have scoffed at them and their life-styles, stuck together, and they honoured their elder ones, helping them when they needed it. That was a lesson that would have been well worth learning for some who needed to take their noses out of the air.

Lucy was surprised at how immediately she felt her lower lip beginning to tremble as Farder Coram stepped out to greet her. After Edmund had been taken away by the Ruling Powers, she had felt an almost unbearable vulnerability which she-secretly-thought might have even been compared to the effects of incercision. When Edmund was with her, much as she missed the grandfatherly protection from Farder Coram and-even more so-the brotherly protection from Peter, the ache was greatly dulled; she and Reep felt safe with Edmund and Ella, though in a different way. Now that they were gone, Lucy hadn't realized till then, not even confronted with the reassuring presences of her dear friends Lee Scoresby and John Faa, just how desperate and exposed she'd been feeling.

She bit her shaking lip to hold back the inevitable tears as she thrust her arms around the somewhat startled crippled Gyptian's waist. And, as if not a single minute had passed since the day Lady Sarah had placed infant Lucy into his arms and told him to watch over her, he whispered consolingly to her and pressed her tightly to him as long as she needed it, stroking her hair and telling her everything was going to be all right. His yellow tabby rubbed against Reepicheep consolingly, purring in a reassuring manner.

"There now," he said softly, letting her go.

And as soon as he had, Ma Costa's arms replaced his, drawing Lucy to her now. "Dear one." Her dæmon remained on her shoulder for the time being but still looked kindly down at Reepicheep, who was still on the ground beside Farder Coram's tabby.

Lucy felt a sudden tug just then, and Reepicheep, when she turned round to look at him, was scowling, his whiskers drooping downwards angrily. This lasted only a moment before the dæmon who had caused the hubbub showed herself; she was a white rat. The rat had familiar eyes, but with more of a 'settled' nature than when they'd last seen her. It was apparent that, though she hadn't changed shape all that often even when she could, she was now in her permanent form.

"Ratter, old friend!" cried Reepicheep, saluting her by tipping the little gold band around his ear in much the same way Lee Scoresby would have tipped his cowboy hat to an old friend or a lady passerby.

"What do you mean, Billy," said Lucy, fake indignantly, as Ratter's human approached, "pulling my dæmon's tail?"

The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy was taller than when Lucy had last seen him, but he was still easily recognizable as Billy Costa. If they had met randomly on the street one day, even just in passing, they would have known each other. It was his _voice_ , however, that gave her a bit of a start; it was so deep, not at all like the shrill child-Gyptian's voice she remembered from so long ago. Now, _that_ , that would have been harder to recognize without the familiar face it came out of.

"Ratter did it," Billy laughed, putting an arm around Lucy's shoulders and then pulling her to him for a brief, almost brotherly, side-embrace. "Not me." He winked at her, half-smiled, and said that it was good to see her again.

"You got so tall," Lucy said, in actuality thinking, not about his change in height, but still his surprising all-grown-up voice.

He laughed again and plucked at a loose thread on the patched-up sleeve of the shift under his indigo-coloured wool vest. "You got taller, too, Lu. And, I dunno, I s'pose it's more durable and all, but…you ain't always wearin' men's clothes now, are yer?"

Lucy laughed along with him now. "They're Edmund's," she told him when she had breath enough (it did feel so good to laugh genuinely, and even better, really, to have something to laugh _about_ ); as if that explained everything, although, to be fair, it sort of _did_.

He seemed to understand, nodding at her as Ratter climbed up his arm and rested on his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek absently. And whether he understood or not wouldn't have mattered at any rate because at that moment his mother stepped in between him and Lucy, and her arms slipped back around the tired girl in the tunic that was once worn by her alethiometrist boyfriend.

"Come, child," said Farder Coram over his shoulder, looking at Ma Costa but addressing Lucy. "We'll set out now."

Ma Costa steadily led her to the docks, letting her go on in front when they reached the small Gyptian ship they'd brought into the port. It was not John Faa's Dawn Treader. At first, Lucy had a hard time understanding why, but then it was explained to her, and the more she thought about it, the more perfect sense it made.

The Dawn Treader was a royal galleon, all done up with gold and fine purple cloth sails. Gyptian Royalty was not really respected by land people, who saw the Gyptian clans as little better than wandering groups of witches and peddlers who believed most strongly in anarchy (that wasn't, by the way, even remotely true). A simple Gyptian boat would not cause much stirring because their culture, loved or hated, required travel that helped keep port-towns like Trollesund and Norroway in business; no one would do anything to such a boat, not if they wanted to remain on the town's good side, they wouldn't. The Dawn Treader, glittering-however modestly-with old Gyptian wealth, didn't merit the same secure guarantee, especially not by unfeeling robbers with greedy eyes and quick hands for ripping, untying, and grabbing.

If there was to be a grand meeting of sorts, to talk over what was to be done in regards to rescuing Edmund, it would likely be held on the Dawn Treader all the same; this smaller boat (which turned out to belong to the Costas and had suffered no worse abuse than an attempted joy-ride by a certain Lyra Belacqua of Jordan College upon rare occasion in all the years they'd owned and maintained it) would simply take them out to where-ever the current fixed location of the royal galleon was.

As soon as Lucy's feet were both planted firmly on the edge of the deck, Kaisa let out another honk, whispered something to Reepicheep, and flew away. Lucy heard some of what Serafina's goose-dæmon said, through Reepicheep, but only as a distant buzzing in her ears, so she had to ask him.

"What was Kaisa saying to you, Reep? I couldn't understand. Also, why was he leaving? I hoped he'd stay with us."

"He said he can't, not now," Reepicheep explained quietly, "but he hopes to see us again soon-through Serafina Pekkala, if not in person."

"Oh, _is_ Serafina going to join us?" Lucy asked excitedly, nearly clasping her hands together from joyful expectation.

Reepicheep shrugged, his darkish fur waved lightly in the sea-breeze as the ship began to pull out with them and the Gyptians all on board (Lee Scoresby decided not to come, since he thought it might be wise not to leave his airship unattended for too long; he would wait in Trollesund for them to send word back if they needed him). "Maybe she will, Kaisa didn't promise anything either way."

"I see," Lucy sighed, a little deflated but not dramatically so. She put her hands on the ship's railing and took in a long, deep breath. She missed Edmund and wished he was there with her. _Oh, Reep, we've simply got to get him and Ella back soon, we have to help them._

It would take a day's sailing to reach the Dawn Treader, Farder Coram and John Faa told her when she had had her fill of looking out at the sea for the moment and was beginning to yawn uncontrollably, so they would all have to sleep on the Costa's boat that night.

"Don't you worry about a thing, Lucy," said Farder Coram in the very nicest sort of voice a girl who has been through as much as Lucy Pevensie had could possibly long to hear. "You go on down with Ma Costa and she'll show you to bed."

She nodded, too tired to say what was really on her mind.

Farder Coram understood anyway. He leaned close to her ear as she walked over to Ma Costa and said, "Just think, soon we'll have Edmund back safe and sound." He said it without hesitation, as if he truly believed it, yet there was not even the slightest trace of 'patronizing' in his voice, either. If he believed it was possible to rescue Edmund unscathed-he, poor, lame, old Gyptian, brave as anything-then so also was her own faith shinning slightly brighter. It burned like a candle, then like starlight, when he added, "The Lion-Aslan-surely he'll help us."

"Bless you," whispered Lucy, at that.

"Let's get you some warm milk and then have you a-tucked up in bed where you ought to be;" Ma Costa said as Lucy ducked to get below deck, into the narrow hallway where the cabins were. "it's getting late."

The next thing Lucy knew, she was in a wooden cot with a patchwork quilt wrapped around her legs and waist and a violet knitted blanket over her shoulders, a hot tin mug of creamy milk in her hands, Reepicheep already looking glassy-eyed and half-asleep. She herself hardly felt awake. Through her dæmon, her vision occasionally blurred slightly, stained with sleepy-tears and darkened by heavy ever-lowering eyelids.

Ma Costa had another quilt in her hands and Lucy was about to murmur thank you very much but she didn't need it, that she was already plenty warm enough, when she realized it wasn't for her bed at all. The clever Gyptian woman was hanging it up as a sort of divider in the cabin. Lucy had been too weary, especially once she had the milk in her, to notice the other cot on the far starboard side of the cabin or to think about who would sleep there.

"Billy sleeps here," Ma Costa explained soothingly, as she stood back to admire her work. The quilt hung perfectly straight, like a wall made entirely of cloth. "You're tired at the moment, so you probably don't give a care now as to that now, but I'll bet, come morning, you'll want your privacy."

Lucy nodded. "Thank you, Ma Costa."

"Goodnight, dear one." And Ma Costa kissed her on the forehead before leaving her to sleep in peace.

She awoke early in the morning to watery reflections of pale silvery blues with traces of rainbows (the sort a person sees when they hold a crystal wineglass up to the sunlight) scattered haphazardly around them shinning off the opposite side of the cabin, coming in from the porthole closest to her cot. As the boat rocked and the colours moved on, they slid past the hanging divider quilt, paling before eventually disappearing into its shadow.

Reepicheep stretched and hopped out of the cot onto the floor. His human followed momentarily.

"You decent?" a deep voice on the other side of the quilt called over.

Early as it was, Billy Costa had already been up for a while.

"Yes," said Lucy. She was still in a Gyptian night-shirt Ma Costa had given her and it was loose, baggy, but it covered all of her, showing nothing, so she counted it as 'decent'; although she knew her sister-in-law, Susan, would have clucked her tongue despairingly at such an 'absurd' notion.

Ratter scurried under the quilt a few seconds before Billy Costa pulled it back and stepped into Lucy's side of the cabin.

"Here." He offered her a bundle he held in the crook of one of his arms.

"Thanks," Lucy said, taking it from him. "What is it?"

"Clothes," Billy told her. "Ma says it would probably be for the best if you was dressed like a Gyptian-like the rest of us. Mostly cuz we might have-ta dock some place later, and if you was dressed differently than us, it might raise suspicions."

Ma Costa was right, of course. But Lucy couldn't help being a little disappointed all the same. Wearing Edmund's clothes made her feel closer to him. The only problem was that, his tunics, doublets, jerkins, and tights weren't done in the Gyptian style. Of course Ed would have gladly taken Gyptian clothing if the necessity had arose, only it never had. What call did an alethiometrist have for the garments of Gyptians? What really did he even have in common with such people aside from the ties of friendship and-at times-a nomadic lifestyle?

Opening the bundle, Lucy found that, inside, there was two pairs of tights, a dark purple dress that ended at the calves, a forest-green tunic with azure and indigo thread-designs that looked as if it had once belonged to a boy just a little bigger than she herself was, high-rising wool stockings of a grayish-purple colour, a leather belt with a gold-and-amethyst buckle (a gift from Lord John Faa), a pair of soft cream-coloured slippers for walking under-deck, and two pairs of black sea boots.

She was wearing the wool stockings and the dress with one of Farder Coram's old jerkins over it (Billy told her it was a chill morning before he and Ratter left her side of the cabin in peace so she could get dressed) when she went up on deck for breakfast.

The moment he caught sight of her, Lord John Faa hastily more or less thrust a plate of food into her hands. "Being at sea gives a person a larger appetite for a reason. Best not to ignore it."

Her stomach was growling loudly; even if Lucy hadn't already been at sea before and learned that previously she wouldn't have found that statement hard to believe in the least.

The contents of the plate were cheering, also. A bread roll; some sort of large pastry they'd brought from a shop in Trollesund before leaving; two fistfuls worth of raisins; dried sausage links; a bit of ham; and a hard-boiled egg. For drinks she was offered a little bit of watered-down spiced wine in a prettily carved glass Serafina Pekkala, during one of her months living with her husband and the other Gyptians, had traded a wealthy nobleman three embroidered handkerchiefs and a small silver chain for.

While she enjoyed her meal, Lucy couldn't help wondering, not without the slightest touches of frustration and resentment she instantly rebuked herself for and repressed in light of all the Gyptians had done-and were still doing-for her, why they had to go all the way to the Dawn Treader to make their plans. Surely it would be quicker to just start on an expedition to Svalbard and snatch Edmund and Ella out of the clutches of the Ruling Powers and the armoured bears.

Or maybe it would be madness.

Yes, that was it, that was the reason. A team of Gyptians, some of them quite old at that, couldn't just go charging up north on a whim. That didn't mean they couldn't or wouldn't go north, it just meant waiting. After all, they'd made it up to Bolvangar to rescue all those children before, hadn't they? Surely, with the proper planning and Aslan's help, they'd manage this, too. What Farder Coram had expressed the night before wasn't false hope in the least.

Feeling better when she had considered the situation through and through, Lucy licked the residue of pastry icing off of her fingers and sighed to herself. Reepicheep twitched his whiskers and sighed along with her.

Twilight had begun to set in when Lucy, Billy, and Farder Coram, looking out toward the horizon, leaning with their elbows pressed against the ship's railing, saw a flash of a bird's wing.

"A seagull," Lucy said under her breath, mostly to herself. Then she thought: A seagull? This far from land?

Ah, it wasn't a real seagull, then. It was somebody's dæmon.

"It is a he-dæmon," Reepicheep whispered to his mistress, standing up on the railing, sensing the gull, "but his human isn't female."

Lucy's lips curled up into a smile. "Caspian!"

Sure enough, in the clearing sea-fog, standing on the deck of John Faa's Dawn Treader, holding a lantern to welcome the Gyptian King and his party back to the galleon, was Caspian.


	9. Diving Right In

Sitting at the edge of the cool, silver-and-sea-green, marble-and-tile English garden fountain on Professor Kirke's college estate, Lyra let out a heavy, unladylike yawn, not even bothering to bring her hand to her mouth to cover it.

To be fair, her hands were currently busy; one was stroking Pantalaimon's fur up the wrong way, causing the hairs on the back of her own neck to stick up, and the other was dragging along the bone-dry bottom of the fountain. She had to lurch a bit, leaning diagonally in order for her fingertips to actually touch it, but this didn't faze her-or anyone else-in the least since she usually had bad posture anyway, slumping whenever she could get away with it.

Peter, Susan, Professor Kirke, and Lord Asriel were sitting close-by (easily within ear-shot of the fountain) on iron-backed garden chairs, the kind that aren't particularly comfortable and have no arms on the sides of the hard metallic seats.

The Professor and Lord Asriel were both huffing pretty heavily on their pipes. Lord Asriel had offered some tobacco-though it hadn't been his to offer-to Peter, but he said no thanks.

"He knows I'd rather he didn't," Susan told them. She looked quite prim as she said this, she didn't mean to, but she did; it was hard to talk civilly in Lord Asriel's presence-he just made her feel so angry all the time.

Beside her chair, Maugrim licked irritatedly at his teeth before shooting a short glower in Stelmaria's direction and lowering his head down onto his paws.

"Whipped," muttered Lord Asriel, loud enough so that Peter could hear him.

Peter smiled tightly. "And your point is?"

"People don't think highly of gentleman who just do whatever their wives tell them, men without back-bones."

"Oh?" Peter's brow went up. "Well, they don't think highly of men who can't be faithful to their wives, either. Men without morals."

It would have taken much more than that to make a truly distraught expression crease into Lord Asriel's face, and he didn't so much as blink as the impact of the words hit him, but, all the same, the moment the words were out of his mouth, Peter wished he could take them back. Lord Asriel hid his emotions remarkably well, but the implications did strike a little 'below the belt' so to speak. And of course Lord Asriel _deserved_ to be talked to like that, after all he'd done in his life. Yet, somehow, it felt a mite too mean in context.

Peter's cheeks reddened; he looked down, unable to meet Asriel's gaze again.

Susan reached over and squeezed her husband's hand reassuringly, which made him feel a little better.

Professor Kirke did nothing either to excuse or condemn what Peter said. Lord Asriel, for whatever reason, didn't seem to be planning on making any sort of reply to him-at least not at the moment-so it was easier to just pretend no one had said anything at all to begin with.

"What we could try doing," said the professor, "is filling up the fountain and see what happens; then we can discern whether or not-"

"We don't have the energy," Lord Asriel cut him off, one of his hands resting tensely on Stelmaria's head, the fingers on that hand tightening around the rigid white fur. "Without the power charge that splitting a child from its dæmon releases, how can we possibly be sure of getting through safely? Hoping it opens, and opens so than the matter that makes up the human body can cross it in once piece at that, is wishful thinking at best. If only we-"

"Look," said Susan, addressing Peter, "I've put up with a lot since he got here, but this…his constant obsession with cutting…" She shook her head, frustrated. To Asriel, she added, "Honestly, maybe you and my mother deserved each other."

For a few moments no one made a sound. Everyone sat still as statues, Maugrim and Stelmaria's fur on-end and Professor Kirke's robin-dæmon's feathers ruffled, uncertain of how any of them were supposed to react.

The blood rushed to Susan's cheeks. If Peter had over-stepped a line, she had, in turn, _leapt_ over it, landing on the other side with both feet, unsure of how to go back. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. She was a gentle person, and as a common rule she hated being unkind, but there was so much history here. In truth, she wasn't even sure if she was sorry, or just flushed and over-tired.

"I didn't join you to be insulted," said Lord Asriel, finally, his eyes flashing threateningly with an expression that used to make Lyra Belacqua very nearly wet herself.

"Let's just do what we have to do," Peter sighed, trying to let that be an end to it. "Lord Asriel doesn't like us, and we don't like him. That's hardly the point. We have to get to Lucy and Edmund, though. So, getting back to that fountain, I think the professor is right; remember, Lucy's first portal-through the wardrobe-was not forced by energy, she stumbled upon it by accident."

"Too much depending on luck," Lord Asriel said dryly. "There's too much at stake for us to be going about this haphazardly." He looked over at Susan. "Oh, and I wouldn't concern myself with me and your mother if I were you. Marisa's dead; she was a beautiful, incredible woman, but she's gone. Worry about yourself; there has to be something of her in you. You never know where that might take you, _Pevensie's wife_."

There was something scornful in the way he said 'Pevensie's wife' this time, almost like he was implying something-and not something good, either.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Maugrim stood up and bared his teeth.

"Simply," he said coldly, taking another puff on the pipe he held between his strongest fingers, clutching it in a manner reminiscent of a person cracking walnuts, "that you shouldn't have your nose so far up in the air that you don't see your own possibilities for a fall. You might think you're too perfect to make her mistakes. You're not like her, you might tell yourself, you don't even look that much like her-you take after your father." He let out an ironic snort. "Well, hear this, sweetheart: your father was just as bad, if not worse. He would have killed both of my children as soon as breathed near them."

Susan felt her jaw tense up; she could make no reply to that. She hated Asriel, _hated_ him. She knew her father's choices in life hadn't been good, but she loved him-even missed him-for all that was worth. His wife had been unfaithful, it would have been a strain on any man.

There were, of course, a lot of unanswered questions. If Lord Asriel hadn't shown up, would Edmund Coulter really have gone through with it and killed baby Lyra? Would he have spared Lucy, or would he have been cold-blooded enough by that point to kill her, too? And Ma Costa? Ma Costa had been there. Mr. Coulter wouldn't have reached those precious baby girls except over her dead body…if he had been in earnest about his intentions…no, Susan couldn't think about that. It was all moot anyway. Lord Asriel had done what he had to do, protecting his children, and he'd suffered consequences for that in different ways. Killing her father was not one of the things Susan hated Asriel for, she understood why he'd done that.

"You think you're so far above your mother and her sins?" Lord Asriel went on mercilessly. "Wait until something you really want comes along, something you can't have, before you make your hasty judgments on a dead woman. You're young, young enough still for other men besides your husband to notice you. You might have a lover one day, just like she did. And you'll excuse it for whatever reasons you can invent in your mind, never thinking that she might have had her own reasons. Daughters never forgive their mothers, but they always forgive themselves for being like them-denying it when the burden gets too heavy."

Hot, angry tears started to blur Susan's vision, but she refused to let them fall lest Lord Asriel think he had moved her to tears. She wasn't moved, she was furious! The very thought of anything Lord Asriel was saying being true was repulsive. She would never, ever treat Peter the way her mother had treated Edmund Coulter-never! How dare he say that?

For some reason, it didn't make her want to jump up and fling back her chair confrontationally like what he said about Christian did. No, it made her want to get up and run and run and run as far as her legs would carry her and never see Lord Asriel or think about anything in her mother's past again.

But her feet felt heavy, like melting metal fusing to the floor, making her stay unwaveringly in the garden chair.

Peter reached over and lightly touched the small of her back. He could tell that what Lord Asriel said had cut her deep. All the self-disappointment he felt for what he'd said earlier to the nobleman was gone. Foolish of him not to recall that Lord Asriel could defend himself without assistance, without people feeling sorry for him. Pity, was something Lord Asriel could do without. Not for nothing was his strong, powerful dæmon shaped like a snow leopard.

Lyra was being uncharacteristically quiet. Indeed, she hadn't said a word through the whole debate even though, from where she was sitting, she could undoubtedly hear every word. And if she _had_ missed a word or two here and there per-chance, there was no missing the tension and anger. Lyra Silvertongue was not at all the sort of girl who kept her opinions to herself. There were some things she could be discreet-sly-about; she remained something of a practiced liar in spite of Susan's occasional attempts to make a more truthful, polite lady out of her, and it was odd that she hadn't spoken up.

"Where's Lyra?" Maugrim voiced what everyone was thinking just then.

Susan twisted in her chair, looking over to the fountain. Lyra wasn't there anymore. "Lyra?" She stood up, her feet no longer feeling heavy. With Lyra missing, her hatred of Lord Asriel came in second in her thoughts, if at all.

"Blast," muttered Peter, starting to look for her as well. "We have to watch her every minute!"

"Good heavens!" Professor Kirke exclaimed suddenly. "The fountain!"

Susan whipped her head round from the bushes she and Maugrim had begun to search through.

Peter and Susan glanced at each other and simultaneously said, "Lyra."

It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened. Evidently Lyra had gotten tired of listening to them grouse and shoot icy glowers back and forth and, upon hearing-perhaps only in passing-what the professor had said about starting up the fountain just to see what happened, took matters into her own hands.

No one present was sure if they wanted to embrace her for it, or smack her. Lord Asriel mostly felt the latter, but he, too, hide it as he did, was curious about what would become of the fountain once the water started pouring back into it; he took a few steps forward, Stelmaria treading soundlessly at his side.

The others came forward, too, watching the tinkling water bubble up, falling down onto the tiles like thousands of glass raindrops.

Lyra and Pan appeared at their side. If they were waiting for praise or a reprimand, they showed no outward signs of it; their eyes were as focused on the quickly-filling fountain as everybody else's.

"Gosh, Pan," Lyra whispered, "it's beautiful, ain't it?"

The pine marten nodded.

The air in the garden was warm, nearly hot but not quite, and there were no students or scholars present. It made Lyra feel a little bit like being back at Jordan, a pricking, hot feeling pressing against her; it was like she knew she wanted to do something that wasn't allowed, and knew she was going to do it anyway. The water looked so cool. How lovely to dive in and feel the soft beads of wetness on her skin!

Peter caught wind of what she was about to do first. He realized Lyra's full impulsive intentions before the professor even had a chance to question whether or not the fountain was a portal or if it looked like it was going to become one as the water continued spilling down into the smooth bottom.

"No, don't!" There was nothing else for it, Peter reached out and tried to grab her from the lower waist so as to pull her backwards, away from the fountain.

Lyra was too quick; Peter lurched. Instead of pulling her back, he lost his own balance and fell in a few seconds after she and her dæmon hit the water.

"Peter!" Susan shouted, plunging herself down onto her knees and thrusting her hand into the water, trying to get a-hold of her husband to pull him out of there.

There was that smell again, the one Maugrim had smelled at the window when Peter and Susan had seen Dust. There were no visible signs of Dust just then, but somehow, whether it was the shock of everything, the smell itself, the frightened eyebrows of the professor shooting up that Susan caught a glimpse of out of the corner of her eye, Lord Asriel's sudden running leap towards the fountain, or simply mere intuition, common knowledge was that it had become a portal-hopefully into that other world.

Peter's fingers wrapped around the tips of Susan's, trying to get a firmer grip. He couldn't manage and she lost his hand in the end. Not only that, but her own balance wavered, and she fell in despite the lord professor's attempts to pull her to safety. Maugrim jumped in after her because he could feel the tug of separation from his human pulling at his heart. If he stayed there while she fell, maybe even into another universe, he might burst into Dust, go out like a light, himself while she died. It wouldn't have been at all pleasant to arrive back in one's birth world as a corpse.

Lyra was the first to reach the bottom of the fountain; it didn't look like tile, rather, it was white and sort of gauzy. Swimming, trying to hold Pantalaimon close to her heart with one arm, keeping them both together, she reached out with her free hand and pulled at it like she was tearing back a curtain.

Bright blue light engulfed her and for a moment she seemed to be breathing underwater-that is, if it really _was_ water, for it didn't feel wet. Then it was definitely wet, without shadow of doubt. Lyra's couldn't breathe then; she could see the air bubbles coming out of her nose from the labored effort.

She was cold, very cold, but she ignored that and tried to keep her head. Kicking her feet, she tried to make a break for the surface, which was father up than she would have liked. She had to stretch out her arms and let go of Pan, praying that he would be able to swim alongside her. He couldn't; Lyra had to dive lower still and scoop him up again, slinging him around her shoulders before spreading out her arms again and kicking her legs with all her might.

When would they reach the surface? How long had she been underwater? Had it been a long, long time? Or was that just her perception of the matter? Where was Peter? Susan? Anyone?

Then, just as she was about to break out onto the top of a great wave, there was a splash from above and someone was swimming alongside her.

His face, even under the water, was familiar, and she thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his dark blue-black eyes. But his name didn't come to her mind right away. Finally, when they'd both broken the surface and were staring at each other, a wave suddenly coming and smacking them both across their already drenched faces with sea-spray, she knew him.

"Billy," she gasped, coughing out salt water. "Billy Costa!"

"Lyra?" Billy phrased it like a question, but not one that needed to be answered; he knew who she was without being told.

Pan opened his weary eyes, shivering miserably on his human's shoulders, and started looking around for Ratter. Ratter was on the deck of John Faa's ship, the Dawn Treader, only a little ways away from them. It was so close that Billy jumping off without her hadn't caused even the remotest symptoms of human/dæmon separation.

Billy put an arm around Lyra's waist. With the help of some others on-board, he dragged a dripping, sneezing, cursing Lyra on deck.

Caspian, with his seagull dæmon, was there with a blanket for her shoulders at once; then came Ma Costa, Farder Coram, the imposing Lord John Faa, and Lucy Pevensie.

For one horrible moment, Lyra thought her alethiometer might have been damaged because it had been in her pocket the whole time she'd been underwater. She cursed herself for not thinking about that before jumping into the fountain so recklessly. It turned out to be all right, through; as far as she could tell, it still worked fine. The real concern, the one that pushed everything else out of the way, washed over her next as a returning thought.

"Did you pull Peter up, too?" Lyra wasn't sure if Susan had actually fallen in, even though she had some inclination that she might have, and she knew nothing at all regarding what Lord Asriel or Professor Kirke had done once the portal opened, but she knew Peter must have come through with her.

"Peter's here?" Lucy asked, sounding both excited and alarmed, Reepicheep scurrying back and forth across the deck as if to search for his human's brother.

"But he must've got through, too," Lyra murmured in shock. "He must've."

They all looked to Billy, but he said he'd only seen one person-who'd turned out to be Lyra-in the water, no one else.

"He must've," Lyra repeated brokenly, pulling Pan down from her shoulders and into her lap. "He must've."


	10. Of Old Friends and Frozen Water Troughs

The water in the fountain wasn't freezing, but it was colder than Peter would have liked. When he lost Susan's hand and began to plunge deeper in, he knew there was something amiss. After all, fountains-even really big ones-weren't quite this deep. Then there was the bottom; it wasn't green and silver as it ought to have been going by the colour it was before it filled with water, back when it was empty. No, it was a clear white with specks of pale icy blue mixed in that looked more like a trick of light than anything else.

He reached down, thinking to steady himself on the bottom then push up, presumably back to the edge of the fountain and the professor's garden-if either of them were still there. But then he found himself lifting the bottom, as if it were a trap door made of gauzy silk. It turned black under his hand-then white with blue again. Murky, darkened, greatly obscured light trickled into where-ever he was now.

It felt like being in a coffin underground. He wasn't swimming or thrashing or sitting up; Peter found that he was lying flat on his back. At first he could breathe easily, but after a few more seconds he couldn't. He felt colder and colder, like he was trapped inside of a giant freezer. The light was bloody awful, he could not get over that. How was he supposed to figure out where he was in such horrid lighting? Worse, he was so lightheaded due to lack of air.

Peter winced, shutting his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he could see a little better. This was not because the light had changed but, rather, because his eyes had adjusted a bit. There was something long and thin and solid above him. He reached up and felt it, pounding at it. It was a thin layer of ice.

Without much effort, even as his weakened lungs were almost done for, he pounded harder and broke the ice, thrusting his body upwards through the opening he had created.

His rising would have been an unpleasant sight if anyone had been there to see it. The shape looked no different than a man, fully dressed, emerging breathlessly from a bathtub after being under for too long, gripping the sides and gasping for air. But Peter's face was worse than that; his cheeks were blue with cold, his quivering lips purple.

Peter sneezed. Then he tried to take in his surroundings.

He appeared to be sitting in a wooden water-trough that had (before he smashed it and broke free) been frozen over. It was very cold, where-ever he was.

Coughing and wheezing, still gasping in a rather raspy manner, he pulled his bottom out of the trough. Losing his balance-again-he fell over into a patch of wet straw and frost-covered dirt.

No, it's all right, he thought bitterly to himself, my _head_ broke the fall.

He sneezed once again and pulled a piece of straw out of his wet hair, tossing it aside.

The room the trough was in seemed to be some sort of storage area. At first he thought it was a stable, but he changed his mind when he didn't find any animals; there wouldn't have been any room for livestock with all the old junk piled as high as a horse's rear-end. And it would have been too cold, besides.

Suddenly there came voices. They were deep, strong voices-fierce also, and at once Peter got the sense that the speakers were not human. As the sound of their thick, rumbling tones got closer, he hid himself behind a wide beam of half-rotted wood, hoping it would be enough to conceal him from whatever creatures he was hearing.

Maybe, and he could only pray this was the case, they-whoever they were-wouldn't have very good hearing.

When he saw them at last, two minutes or so later, his heart skipped a beat, momentarily paralyzed with fear. The creatures not only had good sight and hearing, but, also, he knew without shadow of doubt now that he saw them for what they were, excellent senses of smell. They were _panserbjørne_ , armoured bears.

Their armour was very bright and well polished-there were even chunky gold chains with ruby pendants around the bears' thick, white necks!-and Peter, in spite of his fear, was distracted for a second, wondering what Lyra would have thought of that. He knew she admired the more rough-and-tumble sort of nobleman rather than the posh kind and that her same principles probably went for ice bears as well. Lyra loved Iorek Byrnison; and Iorek would have never, ever dreamed of donning such ridiculously adorning armour, never-mind jewelry! His armour was beautiful in its own way, perhaps, but it was also dented in places and he'd had to wash blood and rust off of it before. These bears, fearsome as they were, might as well not have even known _how_ to do so. They probably just had new armour made whenever anything happened to their old ones.

That didn't seem right, though. Iorek talked of his armour being like a soul. This flaky behavior, this wealth-flaunting, in turn, was comparable to a person who tried to separate themselves from their dæmon whenever it 'got older'. No, it was worse than that. They didn't _have_ souls, not if their armour was purely decorative, they couldn't. So, it was more like the do-nothing guards of an unthreatened crown prince who carried swords, but only for the look of the thing, not for protection.

Peter's next thought, when that one of Lyra's probable disgust with the bears had passed by like a blazing comet, flashing away into nothing, was that he suddenly knew where he was. Svalbard!

And if Edmund really was in Svalbard, then he couldn't have come up in a better place!

Or, maybe he couldn't have come up in a _worse_ place.

How was he supposed to rescue his brother-in-law by himself? (Where was Lyra? Hadn't she made it through?) Quite frankly, it was impossible. It was impossible, and there was no one to help him because he seemed to have arrived on his own.

He sighed and fought the childish urge to stamp his foot and pout, and to curse under his breath. Not only would have been a very juvenile thing to do, but the bears would hear him; they seemed to be leaving, but they weren't gone yet.

If the bears had been looking for him, or paying attention to the scents their noses were picking up, then Peter would have been detected instantly. As it was, they were just sort of loitering around with no purpose. Besides, Peter was slightly down-wind in the dank storage room. If they noticed that the ice over the trough was broken, they didn't care. They probably just thought a servant had done it as part of their job or something.

Peter shivered again; he wanted to sneeze. He did, and was panicked. If the ice bears were still anywhere within ear-shot, they would have heard that.

But no teeth met his throat, there was no white-fur-covered paw pressed against his chest, pinning him down in place. There was no sound of rustling, no bear-grunts. He dared to peek out of his spot. The bears weren't there; he'd chosen just the right second to sneeze.

"Hang it all," he muttered to himself in disbelief. "You must be the luckiest chap to ever enter this world!"

Was it a trick? Were they waiting for him? No, they weren't. Simply, his guess was correct, they were already gone when the sneeze echoed the whole length of the junk-filled chamber.

"Or maybe I'm not," he said, still talking to himself. "I can't stay here, and if it go outside wet like this, in these sopping clothes, Svalbard's climate will kill me for sure."

_Dash it! Dash it! Dash it!_

Meanwhile, Edmund and Ella were still in their cell, sitting still as anything. Edmund leaned against the wall and, tired of flying about the area and not being able to see anything (it was much too dark for that, even with owl-eyes), Ella was perched on his shoulder.

Just then, from the far-side of the cell, there came a faint grunt.

Edmund blinked, but it was useless, he could just barely see past the tip of his own nose in this beastly hole-and he suspected that if Ella was not white all over, he wouldn't be able to make out even the outline of his own dæmon-so of course he couldn't see anybody else. He'd suspected for a while that there may have been another part of the cell that had only a half-sized rough divider and that, at some point, somebody else might turn up there. However, he'd guessed that only through echoes and foot-steps and the distance his own voice traveled when he coughed or sneezed or else, just because he was so frustrated, shouted out a word or two he would prefer Lucy never find out he'd used.

"Is someone there?" asked Edmund, his voice cracking a bit.

"Yes," answered whoever it was.

Ella whispered in Edmund's ear that she couldn't sense another dæmon's presence so that, unless it was Peter Pevensie, she doubted their cell-mate was human.

"Who are you?"

"Oh," said the voice, laughing bitterly, "I'm a dangerous criminal, I am. That's why they shut me up in here. Dust and dwarf-drums! This place _is_ dark, isn't it? I can't see you at all, for all I know you might just be a voice in my head-or worse, a delusion of a ghost. I don't believe in ghosts, but places like this…well, they play tricks on the mind."

Something inside of Edmund snapped; he knew that voice, that trick of speech! Could it be? Was it really his own old dwarf manservant from the days before he was Edmund Belacqua, back when he was still Edmund Coulter the second?

"DLF?" He couldn't hide the excitement in his voice.

"That's never Trumpkin!" said Ella, as if she were quite certain it _was_ him.

"Edmund?" There was more grunting and the voice came closer.

"It _is_ you!"

"Bottles and blue-barrels! Edmund Coulter?"

"Edmund Belacqua," he corrected him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm an alethiometrist." Wasn't it horribly ironic that the one place he could admit that was the very sort place he had kept it a secret to avoid being trapped in?

"You?" Trumpkin, having served Edmund for years, was amazed. Could the boy who alternatively 'didn't believe in Dust' and feared it 'knowing his mother had to be doing right' by turn really have grown up to be an alethiometrist? "Really?"

"Shocking, isn't it?"

"All right," said Trumpkin, cynically; "what's her name?"

Edmund was glad it was too dark for Trumpkin to see him blush. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." He did not sound convincing.

"Fine then."

He felt hard-pressed, avoiding the question, in a cell where there was no where else to go, nothing to pretend to be busy with. They had nothing but time, and it ticked by very slowly. Trumpkin would get an answer out of him just because he wanted to talk, if nothing else, sooner or later.

"Lucy," said Edmund at last. "Lucy Pevensie." Then hastily, "But I'm not doing all this for her…" –he remembered the last time he'd seen her as he slammed the trap-door down above her head, protecting her from the Ruling Power's guards. "Or, at least, not _only_ for her. For the Lion, too."

"You know Aslan?" Trumpkin seemed, Edmund thought, though he might have been mistaken, impressed.

"Well, he knows me. He saved my life once, when I was crossing an ice bridge."

"I remember Lucy," Trumpkin told him. "She's the one who's brother had no dæmon, isn't she? The one who got away from Bolvangar so early on?"

"That's her."

"Grew up nice?"

"Very nice."

"I see. Tell me more about the ice bridge."

"It's a long story," Edmund blurted, a bit stupidly. Ella whistled, realizing how dumb that sounded before her master did.

"You have some major event you simply can't miss starting in an hour?" Trumpkin teased. "A ball, perhaps? An alethiomertrist's convention, ending in a reenactment of you getting taken?"

"All right, all right; you've made your point."

So, as they had nothing better to do anyway, Edmund told his old servant, his dear little friend (DLF), all about his studies and adventures and how he had finally been caught by the Ruling Powers.

Trumpkin listened well to everything, only adding a small question here and there when he misunderstood some fact or else Edmund, getting too wrapped up in his story, was talking too fast for someone returning into his life this late in the game to comprehend what was being said.

When the story was finished at last, goodness knows how many hours later, the dwarf, wishing for a pipe and a good supper of fish or steak, trying not to think of either, asked, "But what do you suppose happened to Lucy?"

"I told you," said Edmund, rather shortly, "they didn't find her; she was hidden-I hid her before they broke in."

"I mean, where do you think she would have gone after you were taken? She couldn't have stayed in the flat."

"No," Edmund agreed. "You're right about that, DLF, she couldn't stay there."

"So where do you think she would have gone? Is she safe?"

"I don't know." He hated to admit this, but what else could he say? He honestly didn't know for sure. If nothing else, Edmund liked to think that Lucy was-if not truly safe-at least safer than she would have been if the Ruling Powers had caught her and discerned who she was.

"If we ever get out of here," Trumpkin said, "are you going to go find her?"

"Yes." That he knew; there could be no questioning that.

"I'll go with you."

Edmund registered this and, contemplating that Trumpkin was in Svalbard just as he was, realized, "You're against the Ruling Powers now, too, then."

"Yes."

"And what about your own story?" Ella cawed.

"We did tell you ours," Edmund pointed out.

"Well, mine isn't half so good, long, or interesting." Trumpkin once again had a craving to puff thoughtfully on a pipe. His stomach was also growling; unfortunate that prisons never seemed to have generous portions. "It's really quite simple. After your mother died-everyone was told it was some accident in the north, no one knows, or no one admits to knowing, the version you told me-and the Ruling Powers took up your estate and all, I was fired. No, I was-" He cleared his throat scornfully "-'relieved of my services'. It didn't matter, though. Aside from being your manservant, I never had any real place in that household, or standing at Bolvangar."

"Where did you go?"

"No where, I was fed up with everything. I was tried. Mostly I hoped you or your sister would turn up and collect your inheritance and sort some things out-some bills I was being unlawfully given. I was a poor dwarf for a while."

"And after?"

"Aslan came to where I was staying and he-"

"Where were you staying?" Being cooped up made Edmund desperately thirsty for tales of different places, real or false, anywhere that wasn't Svalbard.

"A dirty little hovel I shared with another dwarf who was ill-mannered. We were friends, but he was a handful all the same. I remember he tried to convince me that tobacco ash was good for the carpet and wouldn't listen when I pointed out that we didn't _have_ a carpet to begin with!"

"I see, and Aslan turned up in the hovel?"

"No, outside of it, he wouldn't have fit inside."

Edmund nodded, forgetting that it was too dark for Trumpkin to see him do so.

Somehow getting the hint anyway, Trumpkin went on. "The Lion roared, scared the living daylights out of me, then he picked me up in his mouth and shook me up and down till I couldn't see straight. Afterwards, I realized I'd actually been safer being shaken by him than I'd been in all my former years of employment to your family, I just didn't feel it. Anyway, I started hiding persons the Ruling Powers were looking for, on and off, nothing major. They caught up with me, tried to teach me a lesson. I got six warnings before they finally decided to lock me up here in…where is here anyway?"

Didn't he know? "Svalbard."

"You don't say!" Trumpkin went into hysterics at that, laughing wildly and banging loudly against the nearest walls. "Bloody blooming Svalbard! When they said another prison, one up north…oh, they sure meant it, those poor fools! They sure meant it!" He kept laughing and laughing until a new sound, one that Edmund didn't dare say was…crying, sobbing…came out of him.

A long silence ensued. Then, before they had any time to feel uncomfortable about Trumpkin's sudden breakdown, or to awkwardly attempt to pretend it never happened, there was the sound of the cell's door opening.

Edmund felt his facial muscles recoil; not so much from fear as vague wonder of who was coming into them and why. There many not have been any real ways of telling time in that cell, but somehow he got the sense that this wasn't a meal-call.

Maybe it was because there was no sound of tins and metal-cups and steel pans banging against each other. Or else, maybe it was because the person opening the door seemed, odd as it was, to be trying to be as quiet as possible. Usually the doors opened with bangs; no one generally cared about loud sounds here, not so far as Edmund knew.

It was weird (or had been the first couple of days before it got as dull as everything else) having so many human guards as well as bear-guards. It might have been more "normal" if all of these were the Ruling Powers' guards on duty, working at Svalbard for various reasons, but they weren't. Not all of them.

From what Edmund had heard in hear-say, the current king of the ice bears was a bit obsessed with human things, especially their living-styles and the fact that they had dæmons while bears just had their armour. This made Edmund think of the late Telmarine Gyptian Lord, Miraz; he'd been obsessed with dæmons, too, even though he had one of his own, unlike the bear king. They probably had a lot in common, the bear and Miraz, both were said to have taken things that weren't theirs to take. Thinking of them both, Edmund wondered what Iorek would say on the subject. Iorek didn't seem to like to talk about Svalbard much, yet he never told anyone-except for Lee Scoresby and maybe a Gyptian or two-why.

Anyway, the guards didn't all belong to the Ruling Powers, many of them were simply installed as human-servants in the _panserbjørne_ court for no other purpose than that the bear king liked to think of himself as a person, and it was easier to do so with more humans around. These guards wore blue doublets with gold-braiding on the right sleeve. For warmth, the doublets were also lined with soft fur, probably from artic foxes.

The man standing in the doorway, letting some of the light in, looked awkward in his doublet. It was a mite too big on him, and the way he was taking such short, deep breaths and blowing so heavily on his hands showed that he wasn't used to the cold, not the way a properly trained servant who'd worked their way up to the privilege of guarding major criminals would have been.

When his eyes adjusted, Edmund studied the man more closely. He was young, only maybe a year or so older than Ed's elder sister, and blonde. Ella couldn't sense the presence of any forthcoming dæmon. Peter!

Peter smiled and put his index finger to his lips. He was overjoyed to see his brother-in-law again after so long, and there was nothing more he wanted to do than to rush over to him at once and ask him a hundred thousand questions, starting with, "Are you okay?" and working his way up to, "By the way, is Lucy here in Svalbard, too?"; but it was too risky.

He felt a little sorry for the guard he'd had to hit upside the head to snatch the doublet and a set of keys off of, however, he couldn't have jolly well gone outside of the storage room in his wet clothing and he couldn't stand by the trough twiddling his thumbs until a 'kinder' option presented itself. If possible, he'd find the poor (currently doublet-less) man and make it up to him when all this trouble with the Ruling Powers and Dust, and war, and Edmund in prison, was over…somehow…


	11. Jailbreak

Rising slowly and creeping out of the cell, signaling with a wave of his hand in the dim but greatly increased lighting for Trumpkin to come along, Edmund-Ella still on his shoulders, where she would make the least din with her broad, feathery wings-obediently followed his sister's husband down the prison hall. He wasn't sure if his brother-in-law had a real plan, or if he was just making it up as they went along, nor did he really care; he was both too excited to be free and too stunned at seeing Peter again after all this time to give into the rush of worry that formed a dense cloud somewhere in the back of his mind.

The smell of dead fish and seal guts was still potent, but as Edmund had had more time to adjust to it, it was Peter who's nose wrinkled the most and who frequently had to swallow back a choking cough when he inhaled too deeply.

"Come on," said Peter when it seemed safe to risk saying a few words provided that they were whispered. "This way."

Edmund shook his head and grabbed onto Peter's upper arm. "No, not that way." He motioned his head in the other direction. "I think that just leads to a sort of retiring room where the guards can smoke pipes and take their meals. I hear them going to and coming from that direction during breaks in their duty-time. I'm fairly certain of it."

"What's the other way?"

Edmund bit his lower lip, concentrating.

Honestly, he wasn't positive what was in that direction because he'd never been taken that way and he couldn't go by the sound of foot-falls and boots for everything. "I don't know." He glanced down at Trumpkin, wondering if the DLF knew, but then quickly remembered that the dwarf hadn't even known he was in Svalbard to begin with before he'd told him. Drat!

"Well," whispered Peter, taking care to keep talking under his breath at all times, "I guess we're going to have to find out-we can't stay here."

Trumpkin and Edmund nodded. Ella risked a quick wing-flap to emphasize her agreement.

They crept, at first, down a passageway that looked very dungeon-like and was lit only by a few slanted, dusty, slightly weather-beaten skylights. Then, after a while, they came to a corridor that had carpeting; thin, rough, not very nice carpeting, but still carpeting all the same as opposed to dirt or cement or even ice.

Coming up directly in front of them was a wide wooden staircase (most staircases in Svalbard had to be made wider than average, to accommodate the ice bears' great size).

Why couldn't the guard have had something _useful_ in his doublet pocket? Peter thought wistfully. Like a miniature map or a schedule, or anything else that would give a general idea of the lay-out of Svalbard's capitol. All he found was some lint and a small black-and-white photogram of a hound puppy; nothing useful.

They took the stairs, having no other choice until they came to a branch. A thinner staircase with a thin railing of polished cherry-wood came up on one end. It appeared to be a new installment and Peter figured those stairs had probably been added specifically for the human guards, likely leading up to a look-out tower, also recently built. It was too narrow and light-weight for bears and it bore too much of a manicured, perfectly up-kept look to be very old.

In the other direction there was only one step up, wide enough for a train to pass through. That way was lit by giant-sized oil lamps hanging from the wall. The oil used must have been from whales, because there was a distinct odor of burning blubber and salt wafting into their faces. Edmund thought it was unpleasant but no worse than what he'd been used to smelling in his prison cell.

The carpet above where the single-step ended was rich and crimson with fractured-looking Christmas Rose patterns in orange and white running through it thinly. It was slightly frayed, having been trod on great deal, obviously passed over on a daily basis, but it was still grand. Clearly, this was where the prison parts of Svalbard's castle ended and the royal apartments and chambers began.

It wasn't a particularly nice situation to be lost in a castle so enormous that it housed courtiers belonging to a bear-king's court, however, there was something cheering about simply not being in a dungeon anymore in itself.

The three of them wandered along as if in a dream, blinking occasionally, drinking in what the oil lamps' lights would show them in-between a few troublesome flickers. Ella kept dead-silent, not even clanking her beak out of nervous habit.

A peril of laughter came from nearby, causing Peter to jump and look back at Edmund and Trumpkin. He knew it wasn't a human laugh, it was too dense and rich-sounding for that, but Trumpkin's serious, completely unmoved face assured him that it wasn't a dwarf-laugh either. It had to be ice bears.

There were two over-sized blocks of evergreen-wood that opened like French-doors, though they were much more massive and less delicate than French-doors found in a human-run palace would have been, on their right. Peter hastily pushed on these doors to get them open. Edmund and Trumpkin ran in and Peter scrambled to slam the doors shut behind them and himself.

Trumpkin panted, feeling for the left pocket in his breaches where he'd once kept a pipe; not because he expected one to still be there, just out of frustration and habit.

The walls were thick; no one, unless someone else was in the room (and that didn't appear to be the case), could hear them, so they could talk more openly now.

"That was close." Peter smiled weakly.

"I'll say," muttered Trumpkin.

"How did you get back?" Edmund asked his brother-in-law, remembering that the last time they'd seen each other, Peter had been walking through the Northern Lights into another world-his birth world.

"I fell into a fountain."

"No, seriously," said Edmund, thinking he was joking. Ella chuckled at the 'jest'.

"I _am_ serious," Peter laughed, knowing how odd it sounded. "I got here by falling into a fountain. Then, I found myself trapped in a frozen water-trough." He sighed. "It's been a long day."

"So I see," agreed Edmund, chuckling along with his dæmon.

"How did you get yourself thrown into a prison in Svalbard to begin with?"

"I refused to sign a piece of paper."

"No, seriously." Peter's brows furrowed.

"I _am_ serious."

"He's an alethiometrist," Ella said to no one in particular.

"Tell-tale," Edmund scoffed at his dæmon with mock-anger.

"Really, Ed?" Peter asked.

"Why is everyone so surprised by that?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders unknowingly. Then, "And what about Lucy? Where is she?"

Edmund told him about what had happened when the Ruling Powers arrived at their flat and took him prisoner, and how he had hidden Lucy from their sight using a trap-door.

"So, hopefully that's all right," finished Edmund, a bit lamely.

"Wait a minute." Peter's facial expression was suspicious for a second. "You were living together?"

"Nothing happened."

"Nothing whatsoever?"

"I wouldn't have," Edmund reminded him.

"You swear it?"

"I swear it, Pete."

Peter relaxed and Edmund saw from his face that he had never _truly_ doubted him to begin with. "That's all right. I trust you, Ed." He lightly patted his brother-in-law's left arm. "Thanks for looking after her."

"That's what I'm here for." Edmund grinned. Realizing after the words were out how that sounded, he added, "Well, not literally _here_ (in Svalbard) for…I actually, well, yeah, I guess it's sort of why I'm here-though it isn't. It kind of depends which way you want to look at it." He paused, his forehead crinkling, having puzzled himself with his own nervous chattering. "I know, it's confusing."

"Only the way you tell it," said Trumpkin dryly, still terse both from the stress of their current jailbreak and from tobacco withdrawal.

"Where are we?" Peter thought aloud, looking around the room.

"Considering every wall in here is covered with shelves storing small rectangular objects used to keep information in, I'm going to take a wild guess and say the library." Although Trumpkin spoke scornfully, there was a distinctive playfulness underlying his rough tone and both Peter and Edmund could tell he wasn't trying to be harsh.

Suddenly Edmund remembered how-jokingly-he had mentioned taking the book about Dust and Alethiometers from Svalbard because the Ruling Powers had confiscated the one Susan had gotten from Iorek back in Norroway.

He was in earnest about that now, since they found themselves right in the most likely spot for the book to be, and made a dash for the nearest shelf, looking for signs of a slip-volume.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked, fast-walking over to him.

Edmund told him.

"Why would they need to hide it in a secret compartment here, though?" Peter wondered aloud. "I mean, they must think it's perfectly safe in the _panserbjørne_ court."

Edmund hadn't thought of that; he turned round and went over to where a glass-front, rose-wood shelf (the only one that wasn't lining the walls but, rather, was placed almost in the centre of the room) stood. If they weren't hiding the book, what better place to put it than behind clear glass where anyone who visited the library could see the tome held in captivity?

At first he saw only Ella's snow-coloured refection against the dark pane; but then, squinting, he could make out the different books. A great number of them didn't look real, those were more like props, almost as though the bear king was trying to make the library seem even more elaborate and full than it really was. Which would make sense. There hadn't always been a library in Svalbard (precious things held under lock and key had been kept elsewhere then); it was a recent addition, just like most of the more humanized parts of the castle were.

Some of the books behind the glass _were_ real, though, including the one Edmund was looking for. It was dead in the centre-which looked horribly pompous-and if they feared heretics breaking in and taking it, well, it didn't show in the design of the case. Oh, it was locked all right, and Edmund couldn't lift it since he didn't have the key, but that wasn't exactly discouraging.

Much in the same way that the bear-guards' armour was all for show, the bookcase was as flimsy as it was intricately carved and elegant.

"Stand back," Edmund told Trumpkin and Peter, as Ella flew off his shoulder and landed on a small table next to a beautiful but inaccurately mapped-out globe inlaid with gold and diamonds.

Peter and the dwarf stood back and watched, slightly dumbfounded, as Edmund picked up the globe and smashed it into the bookcase shattering the glass instantly.

Wincing, Peter waited for the sound of an alarm, but none came. Right before the crash of breaking glass, he had been about to suggest that they try picking the lock with some sort of small, wire-thin object, if they could find one. Now he didn't need to. Not that it mattered; he supposed this way worked fine, too. No need to be picky.

Without worrying about the state of his hands which were already a bit scuffed up from the long days in prison anyway, Edmund reached in and grabbed the book, shaking a few tiny shards off of the engraved leather binding and onto the floor.

"Mind the glass splinters," said Ella, like a reminding voice in her master's mind. She repeated the order for Trumpkin and Peter when they appeared to be about to misstep, but it was a tad awkward because dæmons generally tend to address their own humans and other dæmons for the most part, and so speaking directly to two creatures who had no dæmons was an unnatural experience, however accustomed to it she was becoming.

"This is going too well," Trumpkin muttered as they crept out of the library, Edmund clutching the book he'd just pilfered, Ella flying ahead of them to double-check that the coast was clear.

"It's all right," the snowy-owl-dæmon told them; "nobody's coming."

This _is_ going too smoothly, Edmund thought, now that Trumpkin had voiced what they were all thinking, beginning to feel anxious. Something had to go wrong.

Sooner or later, the guards or the food-cart pullers would have to realize he wasn't in his cell anymore.

That is, unless, by some lucky chance, they thought he had been taken out for questioning or torture or to be moved to another prison. But, then, wasn't simply being in Svalbard bad enough? What worse prison could they dream up for him? It was freezing here, the smell was awful, the food was ghastly, and nothing was up to par with health regulations.

They had to get out, and they had to get out now. Which way, though? That was the problem; none of them had any idea where they were going. In all likelihood, if Peter had not remembered the stable-like storage room he had originally come out of and eventually, once he'd managed to create something of a vague map of the way he had been traveling in the bear king's palace in his head, taken them back there, they probably would have either been hiding behind things for weeks or else gotten caught.

Another stroke of pure luck was that the corridor they took before making it outside to the path going to the storage room (which was, in many ways, more like a shed) turned out to circle around in a downward cork-shaped spiral of stairs and levels into one of the servants' pantries installed in light of there currently being more humans in the palace than Svalbard was used to providing for.

Peter and Trumpkin were able to stuff a fair share of food and provisions for their journey out of Svalbard into three large burlap sacks, and a fourth sack was found for Edmund to hide his book in.

But then there came the trouble over transportation. Edmund wanted to fix up an old sleigh with a broken rudder that was partially buried in the straw in the storage room and use it for getting out of the harsh area more quickly, but Peter pointed out that they didn't have any animals at their disposal to pull it.

"I hate to say it," Edmund sighed, fighting back a cough, "but it seems like we'll have to _walk_ out."

Two pairs of eyes-three, if his dæmon's wide owl eyes looking incredulous counted-stared back at him blankly. Trumpkin's mouth was slightly agape.

The very notion was laughable. How could they _walk_ out of Svalbard? Someone would see them; it was too vast and open and white for anyone to go unnoticed for any extended period of time. And, even more important, where would they go if they-against all odds-did get out?

"What the devil are you doing talking in this filthy hell-hole?" a harsh voice demanded.

Ella jumped and let out a squawk of terror, sensing a dæmon sneaking up behind her. She flapped her wings and flew up into the rafters both to get further away from the other dæmon and to catch a proper glimpse of it.

When she saw it was Stelmaria and that the man who had spoken to them was none other than Lord Asriel, she let out a hiss that sounded like a tea-kettle boiling over. Edmund felt his whole body tense up and clenched his fists.

"You! What are you doing here?" he demanded, his owl-dæmon swooping down from the rafters now.

"It could simply be that I'm getting a bit soft from these long-winded adventures and the cold in general," said Lord Asriel, a light eyebrow arching itself questioningly, "but everyone reacting like that when I enter a room is beginning to strike a nerve."

"I suppose you trying to kill my sister didn't strike any of _my_ nerves," Edmund practically spat, folding his arms across his chest. "Or that your lying to Lucy all that time didn't upset me."

"First of all," said Asriel, scoff-laughing as if he couldn't believe they were back on that subject again, "I didn't try to kill your sister."

"Oh? Is that so?" He rolled his eyes, making it clear that he was being sarcastic. "Perhaps I misunderstood."

"And Lucy is none of your business," Lord Asriel went on. "She's my daughter, I'll tell-or not tell-her whatever I want. I will not be told off by some smart-mouthed little boy."

"I'm not a little boy," said Edmund, taking a bold step forward. "Can you not guess why I'm here in Svalbard?"

"Heresy? Ruling Powers getting too big for their breeches again?"

"Yes, that, and also because I'm an alethiometrist."

"Really." Lord Asriel's tone, dare anyone believe it, actually sounded somewhat impressed.

"Oh, and Lucy _is_ my business," Edmund added smartly, "just so we're clear. Mine and Peter's. We've done more looking after her than you ever had time to do."

"If you both want her so badly, don't flatter the child by thinking I'd stand in your way." Lord Asriel glanced over at the sack currently at the alethiometrist's feet, and Edmund wondered if he suspected that the book was hidden in there. "She made it perfectly clear the last time I saw her that she doesn't see me as her father. If she's more Pevensie's father's child than mine," –here he stopped and looked at Peter for a moment; "then, well, what concern is it to me? You must know that I have important work to do-with the Ruling Powers giving endless trouble, I don't have time to kiss away a little girl's hurt feelings. Lyra understands that."

"Lyra understands nothing," Peter interjected softly, sounding a bit sad. "She admires you still, and you've done precious little to earn that."

"And Lucy is not a child," added Edmund.

"Worse than a child is an irksome young woman." Lord Asriel patted Stelmaria's flanks. "Speaking of which, Pevensie, whatever happened to that wife of yours? I haven't seen her around here."

"Hang it all! She isn't with you, then?"

"No."

"Lyra?"

"Not with you, Pevensie?"

"Of course not…it's only me, Ed, and Ed's old manservant dwarf, Trumpkin."

"Well they must have come up someplace different then."

"Yes, yes," said Edmund hurriedly. "We've established that."

"Good." Lord Asriel took off the rifle he was wearing slung over his left shoulder and checked to make sure it had bullets. "Let's go."

"Go?"

"Well if you'd rather rot in Svalbard, Coulter…"

"Don't call me that."

"What do you expect me to call you then?"

"Alethiometrist."

"Why?"

"Because," said Edmund, bending down and lifting up the sack; "I'm not a Coulter, and you can't blasted well call me by my first name since we're not on those terms. My friends can call me Edmund; we're not friends. And what I am is hardly a secret anymore."

"Fine. Take this, Alethiometrist. You'll need it." He thrust something into his hands.

Edmund examined it. "A pistol?"

"You didn't think you could just stroll out of here without any weapons to defend yourself, I hope."

Ella few over to Stelmaria and scratched her on the nose with her bird-claw. The snow-leopard winced and tried to snap her teeth at the owl.

"Control your dæmon, Alethiometrist." Lord Asriel frowned at him.

"Bad owl," Edmund said off-handedly with no enthusiasm as he checked the pistol for bullets and Asriel handed another pistol to Peter and a bow and three arrows to Trumpkin. "No, don't do that, Ella." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I tried."

"You must be exhausted," sneered Lord Asriel.

"I am," said Edmund coolly.

"Dwarf, take care of those arrows," warned Lord Asriel. "Those three were the only ones I could find. If you use them you better bloody well hit the mark and kill something, otherwise it will have been a dreadfully waste."

"The DLF happens to be a famous bowman," Edmund said without looking up from his pistol as he adjusted something on it, hoping he wouldn't accidentally set it off as it had been a good while since he'd last handled one.

"Then why was he ironing your socks?"

"The archery competitions were called off on account of everyone went looking for your brain," Edmund came up with.

"Ed!" scolded Peter, trying-in vain-not to laugh at that. "You're not five."

"For the record," Trumpkin felt he had to say, gruffly, "I _never_ ironed his socks. Or anybody's socks. I don't iron...at all."

"Let's stop this chatter," Peter grunted, getting fed up. "And can someone please, for the love of God, tell me how to take the safety off of this thing?" He looked back down at the pistol in his hand. He hated guns; he was useless with them. Where was a good sword like Rhindon when he needed it?

"Let's get this over with." Lord Asriel snatched Peter's pistol, took off the safety, and then thrust it back at him so hard it was more like shoving it at his stomach.

"Gee, thanks," groaned Peter, grimacing.

"Where are we going?" Ella asked Stelmaria flat out.

"Probably back to the cabin I was staying in the last time I was in this world. We just can't stay for too long," answered Lord Asriel. "They might come looking for us there if we did that."

"You can't possibly think poor Thorold is _still_ there?" said Edmund incredulously. The moment he said it, however, he felt certain both that Lord Asriel _did_ think that and also that Thorold and his pincher dæmon really _were_ still waiting for his return. Unbelievable.

There was nothing else for it, they all took deep breaths and, weapons close at hand, walked out of the storage room and onto the snowy tundra.


	12. of Gunfire, Ice Bears, and Dreams

"Don't run until I give you leave to do so," Lord Asriel ordered as the storage room shed slowly but surely was further and further behind their backs, the wide whiteness of open-air Svalbard looming more and more oppressively in front of them.

"If you're going to be in charge of the weapons usage, then I can at least tell everyone when to run, thank you very much." Peter let out a frustrated snort.

"I think not, Pevensie," said Lord Asriel, glancing down at Peter's hands. "You've put the safety back on that pistol again, I see."

"Hang it all!"

Without even taking another breath or flinching, Lord Asriel took the weapon back, took off the safety, and thrust it at him-again.

"Is there any way you could hand it back _without_ jabbing me in the stomach?" grumped Peter, with understandable irritation.

"Where's the fun in that?" Lord Asriel chuckled. Stelmaria laughed along with him, but her laughter sounded very similar to her growl and was equally unnerving.

"What if I hold him and you punch?" Edmund whispered to his brother-in-law, only half-joking.

"Maybe once we get out of Svalbard," said Peter. He knew he wasn't actually going to hit Lord Asriel, probably, but the notion of doing so made his sore abdomen feel a little better.

"Be quiet, Pevensie," Lord Asriel spat-hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "They're going to see us any second now. We have to be ready."

A flaming arrow came flying at them-seemingly out of no where at all-and almost hit Edmund in the shoulder. Lord Asriel reached out and shoved him to the ground in the nick of time; Stelmaria pounced on Ella, pinning the owl down until it was safe for her human to stand up again, his pistol in hand, uncertain of what he was supposed to shoot at.

Lord Asriel was already shooting off a few warning shots with his rifle and, judging by the fact that Peter suddenly grabbed onto his arm and started pulling him as fast as possible, Edmund gathered that the nobleman had given the order to run.

The next few moments were a blur. A few more fire-arrows were shot at them; Edmund saw where they were coming from this time. It was from the top of a look-out tower; ironically, possibly the same one they had seen the stairs leading to earlier, before they'd hidden in the library.

It was mostly the human guards that were after them.

It seemed, Edmund realized in-between the blurred moments, when his mind was reasonably clear for a second, as though most of the bears were not present in court, absent for whatever reason. Which gave them more of a chance.

Still, he was a little confused. All his life, Edmund had been told that it was impossible to trick-or escape from-an armoured bear. If it was impossible to trick an ice bear, then how on earth were they doing this? How on earth were they running away with the possibility of getting out of Svalbard? His mother had told him many, many lies in his life, but somehow he felt pretty sure that what she'd said about bears was true; Mrs. Coulter hadn't had any reason to lie about ice bears to her son.

A flaming-arrow nearly got him again and Peter said something that sounded like, "Ed, look out!", raising his pistol and shooting in the general direction of the arrows, and he and Ella were pinned to the ground once more.

Lord Asriel was saying something, too, firing off another shot. Later, when the story was being retold, Edmund refused to repeat what Asriel was saying just then because Susan and Lucy were in the room listening to their stories and he didn't think it appropriate.

"Is anyone else sick of being shot at?" Trumpkin screamed, not angrily, but to be heard over the noise of semi-battle.

" _I_ am," cried Peter, shouting loudly for the same reason. "I have had more than enough of…Oh, hold that thought!" He stopped talking and fired his pistol at someone who was approaching them shooting arrows, no longer content to shoot from the look-out post. The shot only grazed the person-thankfully-both since Peter was nervous and since he wasn't aiming to kill at any rate. "What was I saying?"

Then, before anyone's breath could be caught, one of the great _Panserbjørne_ , was standing before them, growling so ferociously that Stelmaria, even at her most vicious, seemed like a nobleman's harmless pet cat in comparison. It was true that, as Peter had noticed before, the armour wasn't soul-like the way Iorek's was, only decorative, but that didn't make the beast's teeth less sharp or its powerful size less massive.

The ice bear stood on his hind legs and swatted at Peter with a paw. Peter ducked, not realizing that Edmund, standing almost directly behind him, would get knocked down by the sheer wind of the missed blow.

Edmund fell onto his side, landing, unfortunately, not on a soft patch of snow but, rather, a hard half-and-half bank that contained some light snow concealing hard ice under it. To everyone's relief, his jaw didn't break upon contact with the ground, but it _did_ bruise vividly and a line of blood appeared on his lower lip from an inevitable gash.

A few brave bullets from Lord Asriel's rifle hit the bear. These proved quite useless, though, because they only bounced off the creature's shimmering armour. Instead of being hurt or even glancing at Lord Asriel, the bear roared, about to come down on Edmund. Peter raised his pistol, even though he was fairly certain it would do no good. Then he realized he was out of bullets and threw it at the bear's head as a last resort.

His hands were shaking and he missed the bear's head so completely that Lord Asriel, furious at the loss of a reasonably valuable pistol, screamed out that Peter was a blithering idiot. Oops.

This was where one of the three arrows Trumpkin had on his person yet had not been given leave to use because they were too far to hit anything properly came in handy. Making it seem like he was shaking from fear, Trumpkin lifted up the bow and gingerly put one of the precious arrows to the string. Taking a deep breath, he aimed, at fairly close range, for one of the kinks in the armour.

The bear, by some miracle Edmund could not wrap his mind around, did not see this trick coming, and the arrow, hitting him between the armour-plates, struck him down. He was not instantly killed (possibly he was not killed at all, if he ever made it back to court and was able to have his wounds cared for); he was simply hurt badly enough that they all got away from him and were able to get a head-start and dive into a cave-like opening behind a boulder just as another bear came close to them. They couldn't out-run an armoured bear, so hiding was the only sensible option, and the boulder-cave was the only non-open place available.

Edmund made a mental note to ask Iorek Byrnison why bears were suddenly so gullible, such a shame to their great and regal race, if he ever saw his _panserbjørne_ friend again.

At his sides, Peter was panting; Trumpkin was muttering something nearly inaudible under his breath that sounded like, "Bears and blastations"; and Lord Asriel was busily rummaging around the inside of his coat trying to pull a sleek silver-coloured object from his pocket.

"Ah, here we are." Lord Asriel finally managed to produce the flask, and-after taking several sips himself-he handed it over to Peter. "Here, Pevensie, it's complete insanity to be in this kind of climate without this."

No longer a young boy of only fourteen, a fully-grown man now, Peter was able to take a few swallows without coughing or sputtering. It was still stronger than he was used to, though, and he had to gulp several times to rid himself of the light burning sensation in his throat. The reward for all that swallowing and the not-exactly-pleasant taste was instant; his whole body started feeling warmer.

"Here, Ed, take a bit," Peter said, handing the flask over.

"Thanks," said Edmund gratefully, tossing his head back and taking a quick swig of the stuff. It was ghastly stuff, and while he didn't cough half so much as Peter had his first time trying it, he couldn't quite make the claim that he didn't sputter at all.

"Better?" Lord Asriel asked as Trumpkin quietly and without any trouble had some before handing the flask back over to the nobleman.

They all nodded and sighed deeply.

"Are we going to sleep in here?" Ella wondered aloud.

"Maybe we should," Peter began.

Lord Asriel stuck in his oar before he could finish. "We _have_ to, there's no 'maybe' about it. We don't want the bears to see us come out of here. So, we spend the night huddled up, then we crawl out in the morning."

None of them argued with his logic, but they disliked being ordered about that way by someone they weren't particularly fond of in the first place. They grumbled under their breaths, nodding outwardly, balking inwardly.

Eventually, tired yet not able to fall asleep at will (the ground under them wasn't very comfortable), Peter asked, "Lord Asriel, where did you come up? When you into this world through the fountain, I mean."

"This cave, actually," Lord Asriel admited, in an almost conversational tone, looking sort of peaceful in an odd, nearly-resting kind of way. Stelmaria's eyes were half-closed and the tip of her snow-coloured tail flicked up and down steadily in time with her human's heartbeat. "That's how I knew, tricky as it was, we might have stood a chance walking out."

In his head, Edmund thought of the bears again with pure bafflement. _You cannot trick a bear, they aren't like humans, not gullible, not so humbled and puffed on mere emotion._ And yet, Trumpkin had tricked the bear that came after them, and they had evaded them all, escaping.

"You were already here," said Peter, a little surprised, "and you came back for us?"

Lord Asriel cracked a smile and a mild snort-laugh at that one; Stelmaria's eyes opened all the way for a moment, glowing with an amused expression. "I know you don't think highly of me, Pevensie, but I'm not a monster. I do what I have to, that's it."

"And you had to go back for us?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I had a reindeer spared for Lucy once," he said, "going back for you falls under the same category more or less."

"So you do care about your daughter."

"Oh, shut up, won't you?" The nobleman grunted and rolled over, using one of their stolen burlap sacks as a pillow. Stelmaria lowered her head down onto her paws and her eyes shut again, this time all the way. "I confess I'm as human as anybody. But this isn't going to turn into a sentimentality parade. It's impossible to sleep through soppiness and I need my rest."

He spoke gruffly, but less so, Peter thought, than would have been expected.

Lord Asriel might just be, he decided, one of those people you could never quite figure out. He was like a wild animal that could turn on a chap at any given moment if the need appeared, but he could also protect; and upon rare occasion, he apparently did.

Trumpkin began to snore and Peter joined him in the land of nod about twenty-five minutes later.

It was Edmund who laid awake the longest. He couldn't get comfortable, yet in the cramped space, he knew he daren't roll over too much, lest he bang into somebody and wake them, setting off a few unchecked tempers. And the bruise on his jaw and the bloodied cut on his lip stung a bit, assisting in keeping him up. Ella even visibly twitched ever so slightly from her human's pain once or twice every three minutes or so.

When sleep finally claimed him it did not do so gently. Sleep seemed to thrust its way into him like a tranquilizer, and he would later awake to find himself groggy, sore, and rather stiff all over.

A sharp, vivid dream engulfed him during the duration of his slumber.

_There's a large church or cathedral somewhere, as far as he can tell, near Jordan College. Edmund knows he's seen it before, plenty of times, when he was younger._

_Sitting on the steps is a little boy in rags, shivering. The boy blubbers loudly to himself, but no one seems to notice him. Edmund can't see his face or his_ _dæmon hidden in the folds of his tattered, patched-up coat; she is clearly trying to help keep her human warm._

" _Hello," says the warmest, sweetest voice imaginable._

_For some reason, as lovely as the voice is, it makes Edmund's skin craw and his armpits prickle with fear._ _He is simply a pair of eyes, watching the boy, worrying for him. Then he gets a good look at the speaker._

_A she. A woman. A beautiful lady. The lady's hair is blonde, golden. She is wearing a pretty yellow-and-red fox-fur coat, and a monkey-dæmon even more golden than her hair is standing at her side, his paw reached out towards the startled, frightened boy._

" _Hello," says the woman again._

" _Hullo," the little boy murmurs._

" _You are cold?"_

" _Yeah," says the boy._

" _Do you like hot chocolate?"_

" _Yeah!" He is more enthusiastic now, and he looks up, amazed by the great lady's beauty._

_Edmund can't decide who the boy looks like to him. One second, he thinks the lad is similar to Lyra's late little friend, Roger, but the next he thinks he looks too dark for that, almost Gyptian. Then, upon blinking, the boy doesn't look Gyptian at all-he could be any street urchin, really. His face is very dirty._

" _Come with me," The woman offers her hand to the shaking boy. "I happen to have more hot chocolate than I can drink myself. And I've got cake. You like cake, too, I trust?"_

 _The boy nods, beaming at her. His_ _dæmon comes out of his coat in the form of a little deer-mouse and sniffs at the golden monkey._

_Edmund feels himself shuddering._

_The benevolent lady doesn't share her name-she doesn't have to, the boy is won over without it-but Edmund knows exactly who she is. Some persons used to call her Mrs. Coulter and Lord Asriel called her 'Marissa'. Edmund himself, back when she was alive, had another name for her; Mother._

_Yes, this is his mother, and this is how she got some of the children brought to Bolvangar to come with her so willingly. Some had to be kidnapped by rough men, but it was so much easier having the stunning Mrs. Coulter charm them, tricking them into coming quietly._

_Now comes one of the scariest things for Edmund as the boy begins to follow Mrs. Coulter down the big stone steps. The boy no longer looks Gyptian or like Roger or like anybody else; the boy looks a great deal like Edmund when he was younger, ten or so. And his dæmon has shifted into something white. Is it an owl, like Ella? Edmund isn't sure. It could be. Probably. Maybe. But his view is obscured and it hurts his eyes to look at the dæmon directly, like staring into the sun for too long. His vision swims, so he sticks to looking at the boy (himself? Someone completely unrelated who happens to resemble him?) and Mrs. Coulter._

_He wishes he could run and snatch the little boy away before it is too late, before the helpless, trusting child is taken away to Bolvangar. But he can do nothing. He is not legs for running, nor arms and hands for grabbing, he is only a pair of eyes still, watching._

_The boy's fate seems sealed. Then, what's this? A little girl appears, standing in front of them with a mouse-_ _dæmon riding on her shoulder. She is such a sweet, pretty little child._

_I know her, Edmund thinks, his mind suddenly even more fuzzy. Her name isn't coming to him._

_Mrs. Coulter's gone now. The boy looks around, bemused. Where has the lady disappeared to? Isn't she all right, then? What's going on? Then he looks to the little girl. She smiles at him and then looks away shyly._

_Edmund finds he can hear the boy's thoughts: the boy is wishing he wasn't standing in front of the girl looking like such a ragamuffin. She isn't beautiful, not like the lady was, but she's so very likable in her own innocent, girlish way._

_But the boy isn't dressed as he thinks he is. Now his nasty old clothes are gone and he's wearing something decent, a simple tunic and jerkin. These are not fresh, exactly, but they are neat enough and there are no patches-or holes that need patches-on them._

" _Come with me," says the girl, she reaches for his hand. There is something less demanding in the way she does it than in the way the woman did._

_Edmund hears another thought from the boy: he's scared, he doesn't want the girl to see his hand because the area just above his wrist is really messed up._

_Why would his wrist be messed up? Edmund wonders, somewhere between appalled and intrigued. He is so caught up in all of this, he can't help himself. Who is this girl? Where did his mother go? What's happening? Isn't the boy going to Bolvangar? Is he saved? What? How?_

" _It's all right," the girl whispers. She must sense he's afraid._

_The boy nods and stretches out his hand; there's a bruise with nasty red claw marks._

_Mrs. Coulter did that to him._

_Wait, thinks Edmund, she just met him a second ago and then disappeared, how could she…unless…unless that really is me after all..._

_The boy is sobbing now. Edmund is caught between feeling sorry for him and wanting to smack him for being such a big baby about his arm. For pity's sake, his mother once gave him a black eye; a darkened wrist isn't worth shedding silly tears over._

_As soon as the girl touches his wrist, the bruise goes away. She comforts him until he's done crying and her mouse-dæmon rubs consoling against his hard-to-see white one._

_Edmund has, up till this point, been feeling numb in his dream. Almost magically, he feels a tingle shoot through him. He's not watching the boy anymore. He is the boy._

_He's in a small flat similar to the one he was staying in before the Ruling Powers came and took him away. And he's lying in bed._

_Have I been ill? He wonders._

_Edmund finds that he does not appear to be his right age; he is maybe thirteen or fourteen at oldest, judging by the reflection he can see in a nearby mirror._

_Funny, he doesn't remember a looking-glass being there before…_

_The girl with the mouse-dæmon is at the bedside, holding his hand._

" _Hullo," he croaks._

" _You're awake."_

" _Yes."_

" _I know you, don't I?" Edmund asks._

_She smiles. "Of course."_

" _I love you," he realizes._

_The girl blushes._

" _That's right, isn't it?" He's afraid he's gotten it wrong. "I've guessed right, haven't I?"_

" _I hope_ _so," She says softy, her tone tender._

" _Do you love me?"_

_She bites her lower lip then blushes again._

" _I'm sorry." He sighs, feeling stupid._

_He can't even think for the life of him what her name is, and yet he wants her to say she loves him._

_She releases her lower lip and squeezes his hand. "Don't be; I love you."_

_He feels strangely relieved. "Oh, good."_

_She grins, then her face is serious for a moment. "You come back safe to me, all right?"_

" _From where?"_

" _Svalbard…and where-ever else you go, I guess."_

" _Oh, I see," he says; even though he doesn't._

" _Promise me, Edmund."_

" _I…"_

" _Promise me, please."_

" _I promise…" -a name comes to him at last- "…Lucy."_

_There is something under his pillow, something hard, and he can't relax because of it. Edmund reaches behind himself and pulls it out. It is an alethiometer, it shows the truth._

Edmund awoke with a jolt, gasping. His eyes wide open, he grasped at the arms of the large upholstered chair he had sunk into before falling asleep. Ella, perched on the left arm of the chair, let out a caw of alarm, startled from the sudden awakening and from her human's sharp, unexpected movements.

Outside, judging by what he could see from the window, it was still dark. It must have been early in the morning, sometime well after midnight, perhaps three or four of the clock.

"Nightmares again?" an understanding voice asked.

Blinking, Edmund recognized Thorold, who stood before him holding a silver, gold-rimmed tray loaded with breakfast biscuits, bacon, butter, and hot tea.

Ella fluttered back down onto the chair and locked her gaze with Lord Asriel's manservant's pincher-dæmon, relaxing.

"No," muttered Edmund, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking a biscuit off of the tray as Thorold was setting it down on the credenza to his right. "They're not nightmares, not exactly. Just…sort of…intense dreams, I guess. And it's not new, it's the same one."

"The same one from when?" Thorold asked politely, sounding neither interested or disinterested.

"From when we were hiding in that cave from the ice bears," he explained, biting into the biscuit in his hand. "I had the dream there first. Then I didn't have it for a while, until we made it here several days later." He inhaled deeply and let it out. Sighing, "I still can't believe you actually waited all this time for Lord Asriel to come back."

"I'm his manservant, that's my job," he replied, shrugging. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you. But, Thorold?"

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do now?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, Lord Asriel-and the rest of us-are probably leaving soon. We've been here too long already; and we can't risk the Ruling Powers coming here to look for us."

"Yes, I know."

"You're seriously going to wait _again_?" Edmund tried not to laugh in disbelief. "He might never come back here once we leave."

"I know," Thorold said, stroking the side of his pincher's neck. "I'll still wait, it's not too bad."

"Why don't you come with us?" he offered, not wanting to have the image of poor Thorold dusting this grand but desolate cabin every single morning until the end of the world, alone and forgotten, lingering in his mind. "I know you were waiting for Lord Asriel the last time Lucy and I were here, and that that's why you wouldn't come with us then. You could come now, though. Now that Asriel's with us, you could. He might need a servant to help reload his gun or something."

"I'll speak to my master about that," he promised. "Now, if there really isn't anything else I can do for you, the others will be wanting their breakfast as well."

"We shouldn't have stayed here so long," Ella whispered to her human as he craned his neck to watch Thorold disappear into Lord Asriel's study. The door was slightly ajar and he could see Peter sitting in one of the chairs on the far-end of the study, probably discussing travel plans with the nobleman. "Lord Asriel's taking a terrible risk."

"Hush, Ella." Edmund took a swig of tea. Swallowing, "Ah. I don't trust him, either, you know, but he can't control the weather. It was hardly his fault that a sudden blizzard started laying waste to more than half of the North. We were lucky that we made it to the cabin-and all the way out of Svalbard-before it hit."

"I'm feeling unsettled all the same, Ed," Ella confessed. "And that dream we keep having; about your mother and Lucy…"

"You worry too much," Edmund commented unconvincingly.

In the study, Thorold asked Lord Asriel if he might be needed on the upcoming expedition or if his services were still required at the cabin.

"Good God, man!" exclaimed Lord Asriel. "Of course I can use a valet; make sure we're both packed for the journey and that there's enough food prepared."

"Yes, my lord." He bowed quickly, preparing to leave the room.

"Oh, and you needn't bother with looking after that darned alethiometrist as diligently as you do. If he wants breakfast handed to him on a platter at three in the morning he can bloody well go to an inn and pay for it."

"It's really no trouble, my lord," said Thorold; "but if you'd prefer I didn't, I don't have to."

As soon as the manservant was out of ear-shot, his pincher trotting away at his heels, Peter gave Lord Asriel something of a rough, suspicious look. "You really don't like Edmund, do you?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Just because." Peter's forehead crinkled, wondering why Lord Asriel was so bitter. "I mean, you seem to really hate him."

"Yes, what's the problem?" Lord Asriel muttered gruffly, examining a map on the desk in front of him.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Peter felt the urge to hit Lord Asriel...very hard. "Why do you hate him?"

Lord Asriel didn't answer.

Peter glanced through the ajar doorway at Edmund talking with Ella and nibbling on a biscuit; he sure had gotten a lot older-looking since the last time they'd met up.

Then it struck him. "Oh. My. God."

"What?" Lord Asriel glowered up from the map, annoyed by Peter's interruption.

"He looks like his father, doesn't he?" Peter had never met Edmund Coulter the first, but Susan always said that her younger brother and her father looked a lot alike. "That's why you don't like him, isn't it?"

"Wipe that smug look off your face, Pevensie," growled Lord Asriel, his dæmon's fur bristled up on her back.

Peter was about to defend Edmund and say a million other things to this moody mystery of a nobleman, but then he remembered what it felt like to have Stelmaria's teeth meeting at his neck and, cringing at the memory, didn't doubt she would lunge at him again if properly provoked and to heck with the bloody taboo.

Back in the other room, Edmund got up and walked over to the window-seat where Trumpkin was sitting smoking a pipe filled with tobacco leaves Thorold had brought to him by the bucket-load.

"Worried about your Lucy?" Trumpkin guessed, putting his pipe back into his mouth after speaking. It twisted his whole red-bearded face out of shape, but he seemed contented nevertheless.

Edmund nodded. "I want to get back to her." Then, looking out the window and seeing something blaze brightly across the early morning, storm-torn sky, breathed, "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Trumpkin's eyes darted to where Edmund was pointing.

"That." Edmund pointed again. "Look, it's over there now."

"A star," said Trumpkin.

"A _shooting_ star," came from Ella.

"It was awfully close to the window, don't you think?"

"Eh? Well, maybe. I don't know."

Are we sure all of the stars are on _our_ side, Edmund wondered to himself, and that none of them are working for the Ruling Powers?

Probably there was a star or two that was not on the right side, but this star was not one of them. In fact, they knew this star personally; it was Serafina Pekkala's niece, and she had indeed seen them in the window and was on her way to inform the Gyptians, Lyra, and Lucy that Edmund Belacqua had escaped from Svalbard.


	13. The Gyptians need a new plan

Reepicheep was sprawled across the edge of the railing of Lord Faa's Dawn Treader, his long mouse-tail wrapped around it exactly twice and helped him keep perfect balance no matter which way the ship happened to twist or which side it happened to suddenly pitch toward for whatever reason.

Lucy was about a foot or so to his left with her elbows propped up against her part of the railing; she was leaning over-ever so slightly-looking down into the water below. Although she appeared to be staring diligently down at the beautifully clear-yet also shadowy at this particular late afternoon hour-sea, in actuality, she wasn't really seeing it. Her thoughts were far away.

It didn't matter that her body was there on the galleon belonging to the King of the Gyptians; her mind was with Edmund, who she believed to be imprisoned in Svalbard.

"Do you think it would have hurt this much, Reep?" asked Lucy, speaking for the first time in nearly two hours, pulling away from the railing and taking in a deep, rather sad-sounding, breath of the salty air.

"Do I think _what_ would have hurt this much?" Her dæmon twisted his head to look at her, twitching his whiskers pensively.

"If we'd actually been torn apart," Lucy explained softly; "back in Bolvangar, I mean. You remember, when they put us in that horrid _thing_ -with all that wire fencing…"

Reepicheep shuddered, having to tighten the loop he'd made with his tail to avoid slipping off from the horror of that memory. It had been too awful for words; they'd only been eight years old then.

"Do you think," Lucy went on, "that if they really had done it, torn us apart, it would have felt like this? Do you think it would have hurt as much as missing Edmund does now?"

Reepicheep understood; he missed Ella just as badly. "I don't know."

"Neither do I," she admited. "But I think it would have been similar. The only difference is that losing Ed isn't fatal, even if it does sort of feel like it ought to be."

"Mmm," hummed the mouse-dæmon in agreement.

Smiling, Lucy whispered, "Do you remember how he saved us from being cut apart that day?"

"Yes."

"I was so angry with him afterwards," she laughed lightly to herself, "when he lied to me."

"Angrier still when he tried to steal the silver pocket watch," Reepicheep reminded her, smiling a little.

"That was the last time we saw him for four years." Lucy's expression changed from wistful to desolate. "I hope it's not that long until we see him again." She wiped at her eyes; there weren't tears there-yet-but there might as well have been.

"It probably won't be," Reepicheep told her, not sounding terribly certain in spite of his desire to comfort his broken-hearted little mistress.

Sighing, Lucy spread out her elbows along the railing and lowered her head onto the back of her hands. "Reep?"

"Yes?"

"I'd rather hear his voice again than nearly any other sound in the whole of all the worlds." She said 'nearly' only because there were two other beloved voices she also longed to hear-Peter's and Aslan's. Especially Aslan's.

Suddenly there was a heavy warmth over her shoulders that felt like wool and, lifting up her head again, she saw Farder Coram standing there behind her. He had limped towards her and placed a blanket over her shoulders, having noticed she was shivering. His beautiful tabby-dæmon let out a low, comforting sound similar to purring and stared up at Reepicheep with a warm, loving expression very unusual to see in a cat looking at a mouse. But it was no odder, Lucy supposed, thinking it over later on, than it was for an owl to look at a mouse tenderly, as Ella did in Reepicheep's case.

"You looked cold," Farder Coram told her.

"Thanks," said Lucy.

"I understand what it's like to miss someone-or worry about someone-like this," he said, coming over and leaning on the railing beside her. "Did your brother ever tell you what I told him about your birth mother, Lucy?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, he never said very much about it."

"Probably just as well," he sighed. "Did you know that I used to be in love with her?"

"You were?"

A sight rush of pinkish colouring rose to the old Gyptian's cheeks. "Silly, I know."

"I think it's sweet." Lucy shrugged her shoulders. She had never been fond of Lord Asriel, and she knew too little about the lady who'd given birth to her to form any opinion of the woman, Helen Pevensie was her mother as far as she was concerned, but her adoration of Farder Coram made her want happiness for him. "You should have married her."

He chuckled lightly at that as if it were a very extraordinary thing for Lucy to have said. "Oh no, not me, they wouldn't have let me. We'd have been ill-suited her and me; them nobles would have never allowed it. Even if I hadn't been nearly three times her age, I was still a Gyptian regardless. Besides, she loved Lord Asriel, and he loved her." He smiled to himself, remembering. "I got to give her away as a bride, though. Good old Sarah." He shook his head.

"I bet you would have treated her well," Lucy said; Reepicheep had scurried down from the railing and was standing on the deck, cleaning his face. "Better than Asriel did, I believe." She couldn't bring herself to say 'father'. Mr. Pevensie was her father, _not_ the cold, unfeeling, heartbreaker of a nobleman known as Lord Asriel.

"He treated her all right, mostly," said Farder Coram tightly. He didn't mention that Lord Asriel had cheated on the woman; Lucy wasn't stupid, she knew Lyra wouldn't even exist if Asriel had been a faithful man. It was best to leave some blanks to be filled in on their own. But the 'mostly' at the end of his sentence seemed to hover in the air for the remainder of the conversation, saying all that Farder Coram himself would not.

"And you still miss her."

"Yes, of course I do." His expression was distant, slightly guilty. "Less since I got married, I have to admit. Part of me was in love with her memory; but it would've never worked anyway. And I'm glad she married Lord Asriel."

"What?" Lucy's brow crinkled and she frowned deeply. "How can you be glad? When it ended so badly…"

"It didn't end badly, Lucy," he said softly, his voice full of emotion. "It ended well. They had _you_."

Lucy merely stared at him silently now.

"As for me," laughed Farder Coram, "it took a while, but things turned round. I have a wife who I love very, very much, and who loves me, a useless old Gyptian-and I don't even know why she does."

"I do," said Lucy, finding her lost voice again.

Of course Serafina Pekkala loved Farder Coram. The witch's years had made her wise, and anyone who had any sense or wisdom or true heart at all couldn't help loving Farder Coram. He was too good-natured not to love.

"So, you see, I do know what you're going through." Farder Coram moved a lock of Lucy's hair behind one of her ears. "Sarah's dead; and every time Serafina leaves, I don't know for sure that she's safe-there's an awful lot of dangerous stuff them witches have to take care of, especially a queen. But some things we just have to take on faith. I worry for her and feel sorry for myself every time, but she comes back. Edmund'll come back for you, too." He added, with a wink, "Even if it's us who've got to go find _him_."

For a while, they said nothing further, content simply to look out at the sea and the sun, which was setting now. They drank in the sweet pink and orange and the streaks of red along the horizon as the sky went from blue to hazy purple.

"Farder Coram?" Lucy had a question.

"Yes?"

"When Lady Sarah-my birth mum, I mean-told you to keep me safe, it wasn't right after that you took me to that other world to live with the Pevensies, was it?"

He shook his head. "It weren't a terribly long time 'fore I had to step in and take you, but, no, not right away."

"Where was I?" She wanted to know. "Where did I live then before you took me away?"

"You lived in your father's house, of course. He wasn't home very often, and Ma Costa was employed to look after you and Lyra."

"Yes, I think I knew that part," she admited. "I even had a dream about it once."

"It wasn't until Edmund Coulter was murdered that I felt the time had come for me to take you, to keep my promise to Sarah."

"Why?"

"Don't you know?" Farder Coram's eyes widened and they flickered between Lucy and his dæmon for a moment. "Or, at least, I'm sure you could guess, Lucy."

She shook her head; she didn't know and honestly couldn't guess.

"Lord Asriel was convicted of killing a man," the old Gyptian said pointedly.

"Yes…"

"There was a lawsuit, they could have taken you away to Lion-knows-where…they wouldn't let your father have you any longer. Ma Costa couldn't have you or Lyra, much as she'd grown attached to you both-she was a Gyptian, you were nobly born children."

Lucy grimaced at that.

"I know it isn't fair," said Farder Coram, in a nicer, softer tone, "but that's the way of the world; that's how it is."

"Once we get the Ruling Powers sorted, we had better do something about _that_." Reepicheep looked very fierce (for a mouse) while his human was saying that.

"If anyone can manage it, you might." He laughed and shrugged at that.

"I am glad that I didn't have to stay with Lord Asriel, even if he is my father." Lucy hated the thought of, not only having never met the Pevensies, but also having had to grow up in Lord Asriel's home. Given, he mightn't have been there often, off exploring and all that, but the thought of seeing him when he came back…She despised and feared him too greatly for what he'd tried to do to Susan to have any respect or tenderness towards him.

"He didn't treat you badly, you know." Farder Coram felt he had to defend him. "While Ma Costa was scrapping Edmund Coulter's corpse off of the floor you and Lyra both wouldn't stop howling your heads off. Lyra had quite a set of lungs on her-always had, always will, I believe. He held you both until you stopped weeping. And, you don't know this, but the reason Lyra was put in Jordan was because Lord Asriel took her away from where the courts had placed her; and then he dared them to undo it."

"Why would he…"

"She was put into a foster home by the law; the head of that household was a man who works very prominently with the Ruling Powers. Asriel would not suffer to have her raised by such a man, better the Master of Jordan than wicked persons."

"Did Lord Asriel know you took me?"

Farder Coram's bony chin turned inwards, as if he was trying very hard to remember. "Well, in time he did. I've never been certain if he knew from the first-I didn't tell him when I took you away, too scared the courts would get wind of it and try to stop me-but he knew after a while. Lord Asriel himself never said much about it after the fact. You know he's a very…er…reserved nobleman."

"That's _one_ way of putting it," mumbled Reepicheep.

"You know," Farder Coram went on after a pause, "even though I knew the Pevensies would take good care of you-that they would protect you-I felt horrible giving you up. I knew it was impossible to keep you, that you wasn't any safer growing up Gyptian if we'd keep you with us, as hidden. But I felt…I was miserable for days afterwards."

"You wanted to keep us," Reepicheep stated.

"More than anything," he sighed. "Digory Kirke, one of the people helping me smuggle you into that other world-and the only one to stay behind and not to return to the world he was born in, at that-was sorry to leave you, too."

Lucy wondered what it would have been like to have been raised as a Gyptian, as if she were Farder Coram's daughter or little niece. She wondered how she would have liked that. Of course Farder Coram would have treated her very well, but she would have never lived with the Pevensies-she would have never met her beloved adoptive parents, or Peter. Also, the notion of being a stolen nobly-born child raised by Gyptians was fine and jolly exciting in theory, however, in reality, she could see how it might have been quite a hassle. It had been bad enough having to hide Reepicheep for eight years, concealing from nearly everyone that she had a dæmon; how horrid it was to imagine having to hide all the time to avoid being spotted and taken away from the Gyptians because they were 'only Gyptians' and would have never been allowed to raise her! No, Farder Coram had unselfishly done the very best thing for her, and she loved him all the more so for that.

"It would have been interesting to have been raised Gyptian," Lucy mused, speaking her thoughts aloud, "but I think you did the right thing."

"Aye, the right thing. Also the hardest thing. Poor Ma Costa wanted you both so badly. She knew she couldn't have _you_ , of course, because of my promise to Lady Sarah and also that we somehow knew that your half-sister staying behind wouldn't be dangerous, that things would work out for her, but we couldn't say the same for you, not for certain. All the same, as Lyra was still in this world, you can't imagine how much Ma Costa wanted to keep her. She wanted to keep her even more-I think-than I wanted to keep you, if you can believe it! She was in court constantly, impossible as it clearly was, theys never give a child to a Gyptian."

"I think Lyra would have made an excellent Gyptian," laughed Lucy. "Better than I would have."

"Maybe, maybe not." Farder Coram shrugged his old, weary shoulders. "Ma Costa says that your average Gyptian is a water person but Lyra's something even more wild than that-a fire person. She's got a sort of loveable deception about her that we Gyptians can't harness, not in her and not for ourselves."

"Where is Lyra just now, anyway?" Lucy wondered aloud, suddenly realizing she hadn't seen her half-sister for many hours by this point.

It was unusual for Lyra to stay below decks for so long. She was so free-spirited that it was a wonder she was able to will herself to descend from the open-air decks where she ran along, talking-and colourfully cursing at, or along with-this or that Gyptian crew member to the cabins below. And yet, there had been none of the usual signs of her presence.

Reepicheep anxiously climbed up onto the railing again and peered down, wrinkling his nose nervously, as if he thought Lyra and Pantalaimon had jumped over-board or that some other similar disaster must have occurred.

"I'm going to go look for her," Lucy decided; Reepicheep hopped down and followed his human below deck.

Together they checked most of the cabins, but they didn't have to stay searching in any one area for too long because Reepicheep would have sensed Pantalaimon's presence once he came into close enough range. All the same, just as she thought she was starting to run out of places to look, Lucy wondered if there was anything made of cedar-wood on the Dawn Treader; she resolved to ask John Faa later. Cedar-wood was said to have a sleepy, blocking effect on dæmons, and she thought that perhaps it could have been cedar-wood that had protected her from the Ruling Powers when Edmund hid her and also that was keeping Reepicheep from tracking Pantalaimon now.

It wasn't cedar-wood, however, in this case-impeding their search for Lyra. It was simply that they hadn't checked the right place yet. They finally did, a long, low-ceiling, storage space under the level the servants' cabins were on. Down there, many useful things were kept. There were strings of ham and bacon and onions hanging from the beams, barrels and bottles and casks filled with water and wine; also, folded hammocks and extra charts of stars, seas, islands, and narrow strips of land. Many crates of grains and vegetables were stored on the port right-hand corner.

Reepicheep detected Pantalaimon near where the wine was; he scurried over, concerned, Lucy following.

There was some reason for Reepicheep's concern, Pantalaimon was acting-and looking, too, they realized when they were close enough to see him-rather odd. His normally sleek fur was all bristled and standing up involuntarily, though not with rage or fear, merely with a sort of unexplained silliness. Lucy was sure at once that if Pan could still have shape-shifted, he would have been shifting into all kinds of nonsense shapes for no particular reason-just for a lark, really. Pan was…how to describe it…giddy?

Within seconds of coming near Pantalaimon, Reepicheep was aware of Ratter, acting with very much the same oddness, only slightly more controlled. Billy Costa was down here with Lyra, too, then.

"Lyra?" said Lucy, raising the small lantern she'd carried down with her for light to see by.

When she finally saw her half-sister, she nearly dropped the lantern from surprise.

For some reason she had not thought of the possibility of there being any romantic interest between Lyra Silvertongue and Billy Costa up till then. Yet, when she saw them together she felt at once that she ought to have guessed long before, even though she hadn't seen any signs that would have clued her into it.

Billy had a hand on one of Lyra's elbows and both of them were leaning so that their faces were close together. Their lips barely touched when they saw the light from the lantern and Lucy standing there.

Shocked, Lyra turned away and promptly vomited onto the wooden crate behind the one she was using for a sort of seat.

Being rather innocent-natured and not having seen by fourteen very many more cases of drunkenness than she had at age eight or nine, Lucy might not have guessed right away what the matter was if it hadn't been for the smell of alcohol mixed with the vomit. The wine casks were right there, after all, and that did explain Ratter and Pantalaimon's giddiness. Lucy may have been clean-minded, but she wasn't a dim-wit.

"I can't believe some adults like drinking this much," Billy slurred, his eyes not quite focused on Lucy yet, so that she wasn't sure he even recognized her by that point. "I don't think they really _like_ it."

"Yeah, they do," murmured Lyra, vomiting again.

"Ugh." Billy groaned.

"And so do I." Of course, she didn't, really, that was a lie told mainly out of stubbornness, but she might have meant it-or _thought_ she meant it-at the time, as she had yet to experience a hangover.

Billy recognized Lucy and sobered up a bit. "Lucy, you ain't gotta tell my mum, do you? She'll give me a clout, and John Faa'll be in a rage, too."

Lucy shook her head, uncertain. She didn't know what was going on here, and she didn't approve of over-drinking, but she wanted to help Lyra, who she doubted would be able to stand up from the crate without falling over.

Gyptians drink wine with their meals, not to get drunk or to celebrate anything terribly important, usually, but to enhance flavors and the like. It's just part of their culture. Lyra, on the other hand, had only had wine, as far as Lucy knew, perhaps twice in her life. The Master at Jordan College had sent the housekeeper up with some for her to take a bit as medicine when she'd had a bad stomach aliment back when she was about eleven (Lucy remembered that because she'd caught the aliment from her and had had to take the same wine a day later upon the Master's orders, despite the fact she thought it tasted pretty awful) and once Mrs. Coulter had let her try a drink at a fancy dinner party. During the latter, Lyra had spat her sip back into the glass; it'd been served too warm to taste right for one, and too strong for a young girl not used to alcoholic beverages to swallow easily, for another.

Billy, who was used to wine, though not over-indulgence in it, would probably be fine. And yes, he'd likely get himself a well-deserved clout from (or at the very least have his ears boxed by) someone who loved him-and Lyra-and knew they had acted stupidly and that Billy shouldn't have encouraged her; if not from John Faa or Ma Costa, then surely from Farder Coram or one of the many other tight-knit Gyptians onboard. But that was nothing to worry over. Gyptians were generally good with handing such matters. They weren't lenient, not by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't too harsh, either.

So with a sort of half-shrug and a rather confused blink in Billy's direction, Lucy helped Lyra to her cabin and into a cot where she could rest.

Early the following morning, Lyra's eyes snapped open. She found herself resting comfortably, except for her head which rather hurt. Attempting to sit up, it hurt even more, and with an intense pounding added to it, so that her hand flew up and she muttered, "Oh God, Pan, are we dead?"

Her dæmon was curled into a ball near her feet. Without lifting his head or turning to look at her, he grunted that he wished they were.

There was the sound of something being wrung; it wasn't loud for someone without a hangover, but for Lyra at the moment it was borderline deafening.

Squinting, she peered over the edge of the cot she had slunk back down into and saw Lucy fixing a cool compress for her forehead.

"Lucy?"

Reepicheep climbed up onto the edge of the cot and went to sit beside Pantalaimon while Lucy placed the cool compress on Lyra's forehead and spoke to her in a low, soothing voice.

"Am I dead?" she repeated.

"No," said Lucy shortly, not because she was cross but because she hardly knew what else to say.

It all came flooding back to Lyra a second later, and she moaned, "I've been a bloody ass, en't I?"

"What happened?"

"Well…" she stammered, her eyes flickering to Pan, who offered no help whatsoever, curling up even more tightly to avoid the conversation. "Me and Billy Costa was down near the wine casks, right? And we were bored and all, so we played cards for a bit, only then some of the cards was missing so we stopped. Then we played truth or dare."

Lucy must have winced because Lyra stopped talking for a moment, expecting her to voice whatever displeasure she felt. But it wasn't in Lucy's nature to scold and she wanted to hear the rest of the story, so she said nothing.

"Well, I dared him to open one of the wine casks," Lyra went on. "And he said, 'I ain't gonna', and I teased him sayin' he was 'fraid of wine and all."

A faint laugh escaped Lucy's throat at this; she couldn't help it because of how easily she could picture the looks on both Billy's face and Lyra's during the conversation and also that of their dæmons.

"So then he says, 'no I ain't'; and I says, 'yes, you are'. Then he opened it and had some; and I wanted to know what the wine tasted like. I think he was gonna say I wasn't allowed try it, 'cept at supper, maybe, if Ma Costa said it was okay, only he was pouring himself a second glass by then and he didn't notice till after."

"Well you both got awful drunk," said Reepicheep, directing his comment at Pantalaimon.

The pine marten was pretending to be asleep (clearly he wasn't, as his human was wide awake, but he pretended anyway), though, so Lyra was the one who answered.

"I wondered what it was like to be drunk," she said, showing some remorse while not quite to the degree she ought to have been.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied now," whimpered Pantalaimon, finally lifting up his head and giving his human a sharp, reprimanding look. "And that you learned something."

"I learned that exploring storage rooms on sailing ships is interesting," she replied stubbornly. Her dæmon grunted and curled back up again, apathetic.

Lucy managed a smile. "Billy Costa probably got a clout."

"Probably, I s'pose." Lyra yawned, groaned, and flipped the cool compress over, pressing the other side to her forehead. "What did you tell the grown-ups anyway?"

"The truth," Lucy told her honestly. "I just left the parts about the wine and you being in love with Billy Costa out of it."

"What?"

"Well, I wasn't going to lie." She tried to defend herself, misunderstanding Lyra's sudden exclamation.

"No, no." Lyra waved that off impatiently. "It ain't that. What you said about me being in love with Billy."

"Don't…I mean," Lucy stammered, "aren't you?"

"With Billy?" Lyra's brows furrowed. "Billy _Costa_? You dreaming?"

"I thought…"

"Why?"

"You were about to kiss him when I found you…I assumed you had feelings for him, that's all. I swear I didn't tell anyone, though; I wouldn't." Lucy's cheeks went a little red.

Lyra knew her half-sister didn't tell lies, especially not stupid ones like that would have been.

"Oh," she moaned, shamefully. "God…"

There was a knock at the cabin door.

"I'm never getting out of this cot again!" Lyra pulled the covers over her head. Pan stuck his head under the blankets very like an ostrich putting his head in the sand.

"Who is it?" Lucy answered the knock.

"Me, and I've wonderful news."

She recognized the voice; it was Farder Coram.

As soon as she let the crippled old man in, she saw that his eyes were bright and he was practically beaming. "I wasn't able to tell you last night, as you left to look for Lyra before it happened, but we had a visitor."

"Who?" Lucy's eyes widened with surprise. Who could possibly visit them on a galleon in the middle of the ocean?

"You remember Ramandu's daughter, my wife's niece?" Farder Coram asked. "You and Lyra once used your alethiometers to find out the name of her lover."

"Yes, of course, go on."

"She's seen your Edmund."

Reepicheep jumped off of the wooden edge of the cot and climbed onto his human's right shoulder, gazing up at Farder Coram in disbelieving wonder.

"Is he all right?"

Farder Coram smiled. "She said he seemed fine to her aside from a few bruises and a cut on his lip that she could see even at a distance."

"Where did she see him?" Lucy gasped. "In Svalbard?"

"No, that's just it!" He was unable to contain his joy for the happiness this would bring her any longer. "He's not in Svalbard any longer! He's escaped-he's free."

"He got away from the armoured bears?" Lucy whispered in a dazed, dreamy sort of voice.

The old Gyptian nodded. "I don't know all the details yet, Ramandu's daughter was in quite the rush and hurry, and she weren't able to tell me more than basically that. I think we should have you and Lyra consult your alethiometers so we Gyptians can come up with our next move. Lord John Faa's uncertain just now as to what we oughta do."

Lyra climbed out of the cot, tossing the covers aside, going to fetch her golden compass.

"I thought you said we were never leaving the cot again," Pantalaimon said smartly.

"Hush, Pan." She found the pouch she kept the velvet-wrapped gold truth measure in. "My head hurts too much for chatter."

Lucy grinned and fled to the cabin she was still sharing with Billy Costa to fetch her silver pocket watch. Edmund was safe, he'd escaped from prison, and-armed with that glorious news-she felt like she could fly. Maybe she could even fly right to him; where-ever he was.


	14. Temporary Separation

"If anyone asks," Lord Asriel said, taking a big gulp of hot coffee laced with brandy from a silver thermos, "we're traders; here to bargain for fur and smoke leaf." He screwed the silver cap back onto the thermos; and his dæmon's throat let out a low grunt of a sound that seemed to mean she was in complete agreement with her master.

"Who would ask?" Edmund wondered aloud, pulling his arms through the sleeves of a fur-lined greatcoat Thorold had-with Lord Asriel's permission, of course-lent him the use of.

Ella, who was perched on a hat rack that was either made out of brass or else gold mixed with some other metal that polluted its purity, barely making it recognizable as gold, flapped her wings as if to fly upwards but did not take off just yet.

Lord Asriel looked at Edmund with a cold, stony glare that Peter thought was a pointless, unwarranted prejudice mixed with irritation. "You don't think we're the only living persons in the whole of the North, do you?"

"I think," said Peter, "Ed means that we'd be shot at before anyone would ask us questions to begin with."

"Then he should have dash well said so." Lord Asriel frowned and, with a half-grunt, slung his rifle's long black leather strap over his shoulder. "You never know, Pevensie, someone might ask us what we're doing. Not an armoured bear or a guard working for the Ruling Powers, of course, but a true-bred northerner, unsure if we mean them any harm, might."

"I'm not the one who asked," Peter remarked. He didn't appreciate Lord Asriel's way of slighting Edmund. "Why didn't you just tell _him_ that instead of replying so sardonically?"

"I have more important things to do, Pevensie, than concern myself with the possibility of hurting the feelings of some know-it-all alethiometrist."

If Peter had had a dæmon, it probably would have been grunting, growling, or making some similar noise of displeasure. As he had no dæmon, however, he could do no more than glare at Stelmaria himself, forgetting for a passing moment how afraid of her he still was at times.

They stared at each other for a second, neither backing down until Peter finally broke eye-contact, shook his head, and started putting on his boots.

Thorold and his pincher dæmon, burdened with carrying most of the luggage, however much Edmund and Peter tried to help, did their best to ease the tension. There wasn't much actual easing, unfortunately; instead, everyone left the cabin in sullen silence, going forward with nothing except for the route Lord Asriel and Peter had charted out earlier to guide them.

They didn't have a very good plan, to be exact. Most of their hopes were pinned upon the fact that if they plowed their way carefully through the north and went southeast, perhaps, they would reach some sort of out-post town and from there be able to send messages either to the Gyptians or else to the Master of Jordan College. There was a great chance that any such messages would have to be in a code of some sort, seeing as any signs of their sending word anywhere could easily reach the ears of the Ruling Powers, but they figured they'd cross that bridge once they reached it; they had to get out of northern territory first. Also, they prayed there wouldn't be another blizzard.

Peter had gotten the safety on his pistol yet again, only he refused to tell Lord Asriel, not wanting to be hit in the gut with the weapon, still remembering how sore he was from the last time. Once more, he wished for Rhindon, wondering what had become of that marvelous sword.

When he wasn't thinking about Rhindon, he was thinking about Susan or Lucy-or both. He worried about Lucy, and hoped that Edmund's brave act of hiding her from the Ruling Powers truly had protected her; and he was lonely for Susan's company and wondered whether or not she had made it through to this world and where she was and what she was doing right then at that very moment.

Edmund thought of his sister and half-sister quite a bit; but mostly his wandering mind seemed stuck on two main issues: one, he was sort of hungry and wasn't Lord Asriel going to suggest they stop for a meal break sometime soon before they all died of starvation in this horrid snow-covered wilderness; and, two, was Lucy all right? Did she know he was out of prison? Did she even know which prison he'd been in to begin with? Did she know about the papers he'd refused to sign? Was she proud of him if she did? Did she miss him as much as he missed her?

Suddenly Stelmaria let out a rumbling half-growl, half-roar, her fur quite rigid, and Lord Asriel pointed his rifle at some sort of big, shaggy gray animal coming towards them over a snowy hill to their left.

"I think it's a wolf," said Trumpkin. He was nervous, but his voice didn't waver enough for any of his traveling companions to discern that.

Ella flew as far from Edmund as she could without causing separation pains and tried to get a better view of the creature.

"Don't shoot," she squawked, sensing something Stelmaria hadn't gotten the chance to yet. "It's a dæmon!"

A dæmon without its person! It might as well have been a floating head! Edmund went very white in the face, and Lord Asriel lowered his rifle but only an inch; Stelmaria swatted impatiently at small pile of snow close to her right front paw.

"Pevensie, it's coming near you," said Lord Asriel out of the corner of his mouth. "Make sure you have your pistol pointed at its heart."

"You don't expect me to _shoot_ it," gasped Peter, horrified.

Lord Asriel looked at him like he was an idiot. "Not if it's on our side, no. Likely this is a star's dæmon or a witch's; it can't belong to a human or it wouldn't be here on its own. Until we know if it means us ill-will, you will keep that pistol well pointed."

Glad that the safety was on, Peter raised the pistol, hoping Asriel wouldn't notice. His hopes were not met; Lord Asriel noticed at once, snatched the pistol out his hands, took the safety off, and thrust it back at him with a sharp reprimand.

Ella appeared to be going mad, shaking all over, going from flying in a circle hovering over the approaching dæmon to fluttering back anxiously to Edmund, who wasn't doing so well himself. He was shaking, too; not from cold, but from fear.

Peter wanted to ask Edmund why he was so frightened, because it seemed to be a bit much to be that shaken over an old taboo he had broken before when things went wrong; but he was too afraid that if he wasn't concentrating he would shoot the poor wolf-dæmon by accident, and he couldn't rid himself of the overwhelming feeling that he mustn't harm this creature no matter what.

The creature appeared before them. Ella fluttered to the ground, terrified. She sprawled out in a very unbird-like manner and let out a moan.

"Ed?" Peter couldn't help it now; he looked to his brother-in-law out of the corner of his eye.

Edmund's face was as translucent as a fine, well-bleached linen cloth now. He closed his eyes and promptly fainted, collapsing onto the snow-covered ground.

Trumpkin was at his side, lightly slapping at his cheeks, trying to make him come-to.

The wolf-dæmon looked at Peter, seemed almost to tremble with joy at the sight of him, then noticed Ella unconscious and rushed towards her, nudging her soft, white feathers with one of its paws.

"Speak, dæmon," said Lord Asriel, pointing his rifle at the wolf. "If you don't want to go out like a light and burst into Dust."

"Asriel, don't!" his own dæmon warmed him, standing right in front of her master until he lowered his rifle, seeming to realize something through Stelmaria.

Peter came over to the wolf cautiously, feeling as if he knew him somehow. It wasn't an it, he felt instinctively, it was most definitely a _he_.

The wolf looked at him. "Hello, Peter."

"How do you know my na-" Peter began. Then he caught a glimpse of the creature's eyes, stared into them with wonder and fascinated horror, understanding now why Edmund had fainted from the shock. "Maugrim!"

"Lovely to see you, too," he commented in a sarcastic tone.

Yes, there was no mistaking it, this was Susan Pevensie's Maugrim for sure.

But what had happened to Susan? Why wasn't she with Maugrim?

Well, when she'd fallen into the fountain, she found herself plummeting far downwards until she could see nothing at all, standing still, underwater, in a pitch-black place. It was a little cold, but not freezing. And then there was a teeny glimmer of light roughly the size of a firefly, though noticeably rounder and less bug-like.

Maugrim, who was at her side, opened his mouth to bark but no sound came out. He felt as if water ought to rush into his open mouth, choking him, but he got no such sensation. Instead, there was the feeling of being pushed upwards through a sort of invisible curtain that felt smooth like rose-water mixed with silken gauze. And the next thing he was aware of was his human's gasp as they both stood, tried but not particularly out of breath, on the banks of a small tide-pool surrounded by soft downy turf.

Obviously, they'd just come up from that pool mere seconds ago, but they weren't dripping wet; only Susan's feet-and Maugrim's paws-were even slightly dampened.

"Peter?" Susan called out automatically, wondering if he was there, too.

"Hello, Susan," said a voice that was clearly not Peter's.

The voice was deep, having a husky sort of tone to it, but was most certainly female.

Turning her head round to look for the speaker, Susan first saw that the pool she'd come up out of was drying up and then filling with grass until it matched the rest of the soft, rich green landscape. Then she caught sight of a tallish woman with dark hair dressed in a long garment of light purple and pale green.

"Hello," she responded politely, in spite of the fact that she didn't recognize the lady yet.

"You'll probably remember me from the battle at Bolvangar," the lady prompted. "I helped lead a number of witches and stars to aid your side."

"Serafina Pekkala?" They'd never had much contact between them but knew enough about each other to feel as though that was not actually the case.

"Yes," she replied.

Susan curtseyed. "Your Majesty."

"There is no time for all that now," sighed Serafina Pekkala heavily. "We must begin to make some plans." She touched the side of her arm, urging Susan to follow her through a small thicket of trees to where a single door made of glossy cherry-wood and engraved with all sorts of funny-yet elegant-carvings in and around its centre stood, seemingly in mid-air, supported by nothing.

"It's no good." Susan's eyes flickered from the door, to Maugrim, then back to Queen Serafina, an expression of deep confusion clouding them.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," said Susan practically, "we don't seem to be anywhere much-and I don't fancy wasting time with that queer door (is it a witch-joke of some kind?) since there's nothing behind it."

"How do you know there isn't anything behind it?" the witch queen asked patiently.

Maugrim answered for his mistress; he would have felt more comfortable talking to her dæmon, but as he wasn't present, the wolf sucked it up and made do. "If I lean to the left, I can see directly behind it, and there's only more trees."

Serafina seemed to be laughing to herself for a moment before she reached up and twisted the doorknob.

Susan and Maugrim's jaws dropped simultaneously as the door slowly creaked open, revealing a long blue-and-white marble hall lit with an evening-sun sort of lighting.

There was a great circular table, and seated round it were the most spectacular-looking courtiers that anyone could have possibly imagined. Maugrim and Susan knew at once that these had to be witches. Only about a quarter of them had their dæmons with them; the dæmons of those sitting alone must have all been out handling important matters elsewhere. They were all dressed in beautiful clothing, very like Serafina's only slightly different in cuts and the level of grandeur.

"Come." Serafina took Susan's hand and helped her step up through the door and into the hall, Maugrim following with a great running-jump just behind.

Susan waited, as she was bade to sit in an empty chair to the right of the one Serafina Pekkala was currently easing down into, lightly rubbing her fingers along the sides of the cloud-pine branch propped against it, to be introduced to everyone. But-as far as she was concerned-there seemed to be no introduction necessary; all the witches apparently knew who she was already.

Serafina was gracious-and diplomatic-enough to tell Susan the names of all the different courtiers, of course; however, Susan was so overwhelmed that she found afterwards she could only remember a handful of these names and even less of their various titles and surnames. 

"We will now call the counsel to order," Serafina Pekkala announced.

Susan felt herself grimace, without even being sure _why_ , and she distracted herself, both from her own unease and from that of Maugrim she could sense with extreme intensity, by admiring the chairs themselves. Each chair was made out of the purest silver she had ever seen-or touched-in her life; the backs were carved into patterns like lace while the arms were at least four times the width of a thick-set English gentleman's arm and the legs were sculpted to look like tree roots of a sort, coming down in a thick, intertwining design.

She snapped back to attention when a lovely but terribly cross-sounding voice said, "What good is the daughter of Marisa Coutler to us? How do we even know we can trust her?"

"She's hardly the daughter of Marisa Coulter any longer," Serafina replied mildly, glancing over at Susan with a kind, reassuring facial expression. "That was her past, not her present. Those are sins for which we need not-and _will_ not-blame her. Indeed, she's been a Pevensie for a good while now, you all well know that."

Susan blushed. Maugrim fought the urge to lower his head and put his paw over his nose.

"And, if she will help us," Queen Serafina went on, undaunted, "we can use her skill with archery."

"How do you know I'm an archer?" Susan asked quietly.

"Well, for one thing," answered a witch seated near her who looked very much like Serafina only her hair was fair-golden-instead of black, "we saw you fighting at Bolvangar, you know. For another, we are well aware of how you fought off the Telmarine Gyptians who meant to kidnap you as revenge for your mother stealing so many of their children for her wicked experiments."

Susan bit her lower lip.

On the one hand, it was a pleasant memory, for that was how she'd met Peter. On the other hand, it was a horrific memory she wished she could blot out, for she had been-she keenly and shamefully felt-quite a different and terrible, silly and conceited, prim nightmare of a girl back in those days. How Peter could have loved her back then, despite her many flaws that made her shudder to think back on, was still something of a marvel to her, really.

"Susan," Serafina said, "we know your story from the day you first learned-or rather, _realized_ -the truth about your mother's affair with Lord Asriel, right through your journey into young womanhood, all the way to Jordan College where you found Peter again and married him. We even know-now-some of what has been going on in that other world; that you had a child, a boy named Christian, and even that you came to be here by falling into a fountain at Lord Digory's college. But is there something we've forgotten, anything that might have been left out?"

"I-" she began nervously. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. I can't think of anything. Except that-but you probably know this, too-Lord Asriel" here Susan gritted her teeth, still hating the sound of his name, "was working with us to try and find a way back into this world."

"Hmm," said the first witch, the one who disapproved of her. "Interesting."

"Susan, do you know why your brother is sought out by the Ruling Powers?" Serafina asked her.

"No," she replied, "unless, of course, it's because they want him to take Mother's place; but I know he would never agree to that…never…"

"That may well be partially it," the witch queen admited. "But, largely, they are afraid of him."

"Afraid?" Susan echoed, clearly quite astonished to hear that. "Of Ed?" She supposed that was why he was in danger, but she didn't fully understand-she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

"Your brother has become an alethiometrist."

"Really?"

"Yes, and if they knew-which I don't think they do, not yet, and not in full-that his assistant was one of the daughters of Lord Asriel...and that Lucy Pevensie has an alethiometer of her own, one she knows how to read by instinct…they wouldn't react mildly, to say the least."

"What a picnic," muttered Susan under her breath.

"We know," agreed Queen Serafina; "that's why we want you to agree to join our legion of archers-in case of another battle. It shan't be the final one, not by a long shot, but it will be crucial that we win-or as a last resort, do not lose."

"What about Peter? And Ed? And everybody else? How are they going to know where I am?"

"That is the next order of business," Serafina told her. "If you are willing to join us, then we are willing to let you in on a secret which will enable you to help your husband and your brother."

"Yes, of course." Susan couldn't agree quickly enough. "What do I have to do?" Maugrim's ears pricked up.

"We witches have mastered the ability to make a special potion. When drunk, this potion has the ability to temporarily separate a human from his or her dæmon without cutting them apart."

"That's impossible!" snort-retorted Maugrim.

"It's not," said Serafina. "You don't see witches dying when their dæmons wander off, do you?"

"Is that why?" Susan asked, interested in the possible practicality of this in spite of herself. She could hardly help it, having grown up with a mother _obsessed_ with cutting away dæmons. Marisa would have paid through the nose to learn of this. "Is it because you drink that stuff that you can separate from yours?"

Serafina Pekkala shook her head. "No, dear, it isn't. I won't mislead you. We can do it naturally, because we're witches. We are different, we're not immortal, but we aren't quite as mortal as humans are. We have different abilities than you. And don't think that anytime you ever fancy some time away from your dæmon you can simply drink this potion and go about as if you were a witch and not a human maiden."

"How do you mean?"

"To accomplish what you must, you'll have to drink it whenever we say, even if you don't feel like it. For as it starts to wear off, there's a nasty chance of you growing weaker and then being cut away altogether from your Maugrim. Let me say it again: you are not a witch, nor a star. And after a while, a human grows immune to the ingredients in this potion. Which is why Maugrim must return to you before that happens; we will see to that, don't worry. Oh and of course you cannot tell anyone about this, if the Ruling Powers knew…"

"She knows what is a secret," Maugrim said, a bit too gruffly, perhaps fearful of being separated from Susan, even in a safe manner.

"Edmund is out of prison. Our spies have placed him, Peter, Lord Asriel, and a former dwarf manservant on a remote plain in the far north."

"Spies?" Susan's brow crinkled slightly.

"Stars, many of which are related to us," Serafina clarified.

"Oh, I see. Sorry. Do go on."

"They will need better guidance. Lord Asriel's route will bring them dangerously out of the way and possibly into unfamiliar territory where the locals, fearful and bribed by the armoured bears and the Ruling Powers alike, would not hesitate to capture them. Your Maugrim can and go and lead them to the ice cliffs in the northeast where somebody will be waiting to help them. We need your consent for this to be done, of course."

"I don't see how I could say no," sighed Susan; she was shaken up by the notion of it all, her initial excitement waned a great deal, but she had to do this-for Peter and Edmund. Lord Asriel…well, she almost didn't care if he was eaten by an armoured bear, but she supposed it would be good form to help him, too-if she must.

A golden goblet encrusted with grass-green emeralds, sapphires so dark they nearly looked like onyxes, and ruby chips round the rim was handed to Susan. She took a deep breath, asked Maugrim if he was ready, and swallowed it. The brew didn't taste too bad; sort of like strong apple cider with an intense aftertaste that made her tongue tingle long after she had swallowed.

Two hours after what Edmund referred to as 'briefly blacking out' and the others-including Maugrim-all insisted was 'fainting', he returned to consciousness.

It was dark by then as the day often ends much earlier in the far north-or else, at certain times, does not end at all, and blinding sunlight shines against the white snow even at midnight-and he saw that there was a campfire built. He himself had been placed far enough from it that he couldn't easily roll over and land on the flames, putting them out and injuring himself, but close enough so that the warmth could keep him quite snug under the blanket Trumpkin had put over him as if no time at all had passed since the old days when he used to be paid to care for Edmund Coulter the second.

At first he still felt unwell and could not will himself to look at the should-be severed figure of Maugrim for too long at one glance. Then, after he'd gotten his bearings and had had some water, he told Ella to go and speak to Maugrim to find out what was happening.

Ella trembled and flapped her wings twice in emphatic dismay. "You want me to…just go over there and talk…to a dæmon with a missing human?" She said it the same way people in worlds without dæmons would say, "Talk to a floating head missing its body".

"Don't be such a coward," hissed Edmund, not unlike the way his half-sister Lyra addressed her Pantalaimon when he was reluctant to do as she wanted. "You've talked to Peter before; and he never had a dæmon to begin with."

Ella was still petrified. "That's different. He's still whole…could you stand knowing that...that your sister's dæmon was cut away? It's frightful. I can't just go over there, I can't!"

"I'll tell you plain and simple what I couldn't stand," Edmund retorted, his voice quivering too much to be harsh, exactly, but serious enough so that it was obviously not a tone to be taken lightly all the same. "I couldn't stand not knowing. Sitting here like this, not knowing why Maugrim's here and Susan isn't. It'll be less awkward for you to ask him than me; since you're both dæmons. It's nothing to do with courage or any of that rot"

"So your bravely refusing to come over there yourself," Ella snapped.

Edmund scowled at her.

"I'm sorry," his dæmon amended. "I didn't mean that…really…it's just…"

"I know," he said softly. "Look, just fly over there real quick and find out if Maugrim's…why he's not…well, you know. Anyway, then you can come right back over here. It's the same as how you sometimes check to see if the cost is clear before I walk through a doorway."

It wasn't the same, not completely, yet the notion that it was comforted Ella and gave her enough pluck to go through with it.

While he waited for his dæmon to find out what they needed to know and fly back over to his side of the campfire (and also to distract from the discomfort he could sense through the snowy owl), Edmund watched Maugrim to see what he was doing. Safely at this distance, he felt unattached enough to take it in now.

The wolf-dæmon seemed less sure of himself than usual, not resting on his paws cockily, ready to snap his teeth at anything that passed by and irked him. He might still have sarcastic remarks a-plenty in the back of his head, but Edmund wondered if they would be so quick to reach his mouth as they were when he was with his mistress. For one thing, Maugrim seemed unable to fully adjust to being without a human; he sat very close to Peter, even leaning against his side as if he were _his_ dæmon every once in a while.

Ella flew back and whispered the secret of Maugrim and Susan's temporary separation in her human's ear.

Edmund's eyes widened and he nodded; this explained a lot.

His eyes flickered over to Lord Asriel, who was sitting apathetically with his back to them all, Stelmaria at his side as usual. Did he know in full about how Maugrim had come to them? Edmund wasn't sure he trusted him not to use that knowledge-or at least try to use that knowledge-for his own means.

"Come on," said Edmund. "I've been a standoffish prig long enough. If you're satisfied there's nothing to fear, Ella, so am I. Do let's go sit over there next to Peter and Maugrim."


	15. Going to Narrowhaven

"Farder Coram?"

"Yes, child?" Farder Coram turned around to see Lucy standing behind him.

"Do you know anything about a Star Consul?" she asked, her brow crinkled.

"A Star Consul?" the old crippled Gyptian repeated, to be sure he heard her aright. Farder Coram's tabby-dæmon let out a low mew and blinked at Reepicheep as if waking from a semi-deep slumber.

"Yes," Lucy said, nodding. "Lyra's alethiometer wouldn't give her an answer, it just kept going round like a compass's needle when there's a magnet near it." (This may have simply been due to the fact that Lyra's hangover made it difficult for her to hold the question level in her mind, which made it impossible for her to read it by instinct, causing the needle to spin. Edmund, being an alethiometrist, might have been able to read it-or at least get some vague meaning out of it-had he been there; but as he wasn't, it was left up to Lucy.) "So I tried to read mine," (by 'mine' she meant the silver 'pocket watch' Professor Krike had given her, not the gold-and-silver alethiometer she was keeping safe for Edmund, as it hadn't even occurred to her, actually, for whatever reason, to try and read that one), "and it keeps saying something about stars and a consul. And the fourth time it went round it showed me this large building, sort of like a library or a college but smaller and rather similar to an old English manor."

Farder Coram looked very thoughtful. "I think I might know where that is."

"Really?" Lucy's face lit up.

"Serafina and I went to see a Star Consul once," he told her, "a fellow by the name of Coriakin. We went because Serafina wanted to send word to her niece and was unable to locate her without assistance at the time; and she figured Coriakin would be able to help her."

"Was he?" Reepicheep wondered aloud.

"Oh, yes," replied the tabby-dæmon, stretching out her soft yellow-orange paws in front of herself on the hard wooden deck and arching her back. "We were only there once, though."

"And you remember the way?" Lucy double-checked.

Farder Coram nodded. "I believe I just might, Lucy; it's in Narrowhaven, I'm a thinking."

"Narrowhaven? Where is that?"

"Between Norroway and Trollesund, kind of…it's another port town very similar to the both of them, anyway."

"Oh."

There was the fluttering of wings, and Lucy turned to see Caspian and his seagull-dæmon approaching them from the other side of the deck. "Oh, Narrowhaven! It was a very bad place once."

"Was it?" asked Lucy, curious rather than frightened as Caspian's use of the word 'was' sounded like something in the past, not something current to worry over.

"Farder Coram can tell you better than I," Caspian responded, with a shudder-his dæmon ruffling his coarse feathers. "He'll remember, I'm sure."

Lucy turned and looked at Farder Coram again.

"A bloody horrid business that," the old Gyptian man sighed. "There was a slave trade there once, Lucy, and many of the captives-though not all of them-were of the Gyptian ethnicity and culture, especially when they were starting out."

"Why?" Lucy pouted and folded her arms across her chest; Reepicheep made a hissing noise of displeasure. It seemed to her most unfair that it was always the Gyptians that got struck at first-and the hardest-all the time. With those brutes from Bolvangar, and, evidently before, with that dreadful slave-trade in Narrowhaven.

"The officials didn't race much fuss over Gyptians being sold off, so that's primarily who they captured and sold first, to gain a more firm foot-hold in the business," Caspian explained.

"Well, they didn't have any right to," Lucy stated, indignant. She was more determined than ever to fight for fair rights for Gyptians once the trouble with the Ruling Powers got sorted.

"Of course not." Farder Coram's dæmon bared her teeth.

"Wasn't it Lucy's father, Lord Asriel, that fought in one of the raids to free the slaves at Narrowhaven?" Caspian asked Farder Coram, trying to remember for himself but not being certain.

Farder Coram nodded. "It sure was; Lord Asriel did do a lot of good in regards to that. Used a whip on some of the slave-traders and everything."

"But Narrowhaven is safe now, Lucy," Caspian assured her, putting a hand on her upper right arm. "They have not had problems of that kind for many years."

"Well that's a relief," said the voice of someone coming up behind them.

Turning, Lucy saw that it was Billy Costa; he looked tired, and Ratter rested rather limply on her master's shoulder, less alert than usual, but other than that, if he'd been hung-over after drinking so much with Lyra the previous night, there weren't many signs of it.

Lyra herself arrived a bit later, carrying Pantalaimon in her arms. She seemed more relaxed now-pensive, even. When Farder Coram brought up the Star Consul Lucy had mentioned, she grinned and said she would like to come along-if they really were going to meet this Coriakin person.

"We should consult John Faa before making any definite plans," Farder Coram said in a steadying manner, "but I don't see-for the most part-why we shouldn't go."

"That's right," said Lyra, clutching Pantalaimon to her breasts. "If the alethiometer tells one of us something, we know it's true."

"A Star Consul," echoed Lucy dreamily; "I wonder what he-and his place-will be like."

"I dunno," Billy said with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I can't quite even imagine it," Ratter added, lifting up her head, her rat-eyes finally shinning a little.

And so Farder Coram approached Lord John Faa and told him about the Star Consul and his plans to take Lyra and Lucy there, maybe even Billy Costa, if the boy expressed a desire to come along and Ma Costa agreed to it.

John Faa looked up from the sea-chart he'd been studying, his dark eyes glinting, not with wickedness (he never was wicked) nor even irritation, but mere amusement. A Star Consul was not what he had expected to come up through consulting the alethiometer, but he'd learned long before then not to be surprised by the unexpected, only charmed or rightly horrified, depending on the circumstances. His crow dæmon whistled sharply.

"And you've been there before?" asked the Gyptian king.

"Oh, yes; once."

"Well, Farder Coram, I'm well aware that the girls would be in no safer hands than yours; and of course-if Ma Costa has no objections-I would have no problem with Billy leaving, provided he a minds you and behaves himself like a proper Gyptian ought."

Farder Coram's tabby-dæmon nodded graciously; Farder Coram himself gave a short bow of submission to the king-the gesture was formal enough to be respectful but there was a sense of familiarity and friendship underlining it which had always been there between the two Gyptian gentleman.

"Now," John Faa went on, "what we need is really to arrange which ship will take you to the dock at Narrowhaven. The Dawn Treader can't be a goin' there and I don't think it's fair to always put the Costa's boat through as much as we do without thinking of it. Heaven knows, even with all the help they've always been, we still pick on them about Lyra's attempts to hijack their water craft."

Farder Coram cracked a smile. "Oh, only a small jest or two. They know we don't mean no real damage or insult."

"Aye," laughed John Faa, "and one does have to be careful-much more than they sometimes are-when there's so many dangerous little girls hanging 'round the banks near Jordan."

Their two dæmons made the funny animal-like sounds that stood for their kind of laughter, having mirth along with their humans until they were serious again and had to sober up.

"Did Caspian bring any of his boats to the rigging? Any we can easily access that aren't too showy? I know that Miraz dying left him wealthy." Farder Coram thoughtfully stroked his dæmon's soft, sunset-coloured ears while he spoke.

"I'm fairly sure he did," replied John Faa. "And if he hadn't, one of his two present manservants might've. Actually, if I were you, I'd a ask him if he wouldn't mind allowing them to accompany you; Drinian's very good at ship navigation and reading maps and Rhince is learning fairly quickly. What's more, they're both reasonably skilled archers-Rhince more so-learned from a cousin, I was told-but Drinian doesn't often miss his mark either."

"Not a bad idea, Lord Faa," said Farder Coram; "but would it be alright, do you suppose, if I was to decline to bring Rhince along and took Emeth in his place? Emeth's been loyal as anyone since the day we spared his life and cared for his wounds; and he's a fair marksman, too. Rhince wouldn't do much good, not if we already had Caspian, too-what with his skill when it comes to crossbows and the like. Should any troubles arise, Rhince would just be an extra person, no offence to him or to your suggestion."

Master Emeth and his dæmon, a lynx answering to the name Emma, had worked for the Lord Rabadash, who Susan Pevensie (back when she was still a Coulter) had once been engaged to marry until, during an attempt to kidnap Susan and take her back to the whiny ass of a nobleman, two Gyptians shot him down. The arrow had missed his heart, and they were willing to let him live, but only if he promised to serve them. And Emeth had done so faithfully and without let up since that day-never faltering in his devotion and gratefulness to them so even much as once.

"I hadn't thought of that, Farder Coram. I'm not in the least way of being offended, rest assured. And I don't think Rhince will be, either; he'll see the sense in your line of thinking, just as I do."

"Good." Farder Coram blinked at him, mildly relieved. "So may we take Emeth with us?"

"I won't impede it," was John Faa's response. "If he's a-willing, as he's always been, let him go with you to the Star Consul."

"Very well, but I was a-wondering what I should ask the consul…if there was anything specific we wanted to know? Aside from out next move?" He wished Serafina Pekkala was there with them and was coming along; she would have known the right things to ask far better than an old Gyptian like him-even better than Lord Faa would, probably.

John Faa stroked his thick, dark beard. "I've no doubts that Lucy will inquire after Edmund, so you needn't worry about the alethiometrist, leave that to her. You might, if it seems feasible at the time, ask about Bolvangar's operations. I've heard of children going missing again; terrible rumours. If Bolvangar is attempting a comeback and this Coriakin knows anything that would help us, it might not be amiss-just asking and listening."

"If it is possible," Farder Coram agreed, "I will ask."

Early the next morning, when the ship they were to take into Narrowhaven was properly loaded with efficient food and water, Lucy waved goodbye to John Faa and kissed Ma Costa on the cheek in farewell. Lyra, obviously more grieved in parting than she let on, even allowed herself to be embraced tightly-to the point of nearly being smushed in some cases-by several of the Gyptians.

"Don't fret none," Farder Coram warned the girls gently when they seemed to be getting a tad too sentimental. "You don't know how soon we'll be back-it may be _very_ soon."

"Emeth," Rhince said, popping up from below deck, his meerkat-dæmon trotting along at his right side, and roughly thrusting something into the dark-faced servant's hand. "Sorry," he amended breathlessly, "but I wanted to make sure this made it onto the ship bound for Narrowhaven. It's a map of Narrowhaven and its principle buildings, platforms, and docks. Oh, and tell the others to be on guard. I heard Lord Faa talking about more missing children the other day-if there's any chance that it isn't Bolvangar making a comeback after all, that the slave trade is beginning again-if they're stupid enough to start up in the same place they were destroyed before…"

"Understood, my lord." Emeth nodded; his dæmon blinked.

"Tell Drinian to be careful, as well," Rhince reminded him. "Not all land-people are as good-natured as the two girls we've got on-board, as I'm sure you'll remember." Then, less dourly, "Heck, if it weren't for Lyra's fair colouring and fiery temper one could almost take her for a Gyptian."

Rhince, as a child, was actually raised on land for a good chunk of his early life. His mother had-although rumoured to have been a half-Gyptian bastard herself, which no one could prove or disprove-been a land lady of the upper middle class society; neither rich like Lord Asriel, nor poor like the gutter children Mrs. Coulter lured away when she was in want for a suitable Gyptian brat. Because of this, Rhince had endured more name-calling even than most full-bloodied Gyptians, as they are often out at sea or busy with adventures, generally have to put up with. He knew cruel people-and he was sure Emeth knew, and remembered, them as well.

In fact, one of the reasons Rhince was anxious was because the place he had lived with his mother was only a few miles west of Narrowhaven. Secretly, he was glad it was Emeth going and not him, and-so great was his relief-he felt he could very nearly have thrown himself down at Farder Coram's feet with gratitude if he were a less dignified man.

"Come, Lucy." Caspian helped Lucy step into the little row-boat that would take them to his ship bound for Narrowhaven. (Lyra had already jumped in without assistance of any sort.)

"Billy, you behave or you be havin' me to answer to when you return," Ma Costa called after the row-boat.

"Yes, Ma!" he called back respectfully.

"And don't forget to wash behind your ears, Billy! Don't you dare show up to meet that Star Consul with a dirty face-it would shake our good name."

"Ma!" Billy exclaimed, a little embarrassed because Lyra was watching his squirming facial expression and making rather nasty faces back to poke fun at him.

Farder Coram choked back a laugh.

"Farder Coram," said Lyra, a little later, noticing something before she saw the shape of Caspian's modest ship coming into view.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"What's that sort of mist we're comin' near?"

"Only fog," he replied. "Don't worry. We're nearly at the ship now."

"Drinian," said Emeth, remembering Rhince's advice now. "I'm supposed to give you this map-" He paused. It was Drinian Rhince had meant it for, wasn't it? Or had he meant to give it to Caspian or even Farder Coram? At least he could rule out Billy Costa-of course it hadn't been meant for _him_. But he was still confused. All Rhince had really said was that he wanted it on board; and, well, it would be. Mission accomplished?

"Good man," said Drinian. "I do hope we won't have any trouble."

"We likely won't," said Billy, his tone a cheerful contrast to their faint gloom; "it's a port town, after all. Ain't it?"

"It's a mite richer than Norroway," sighed Farder Coram, as if that explained it.

"Then…" Lyra blinked, rubbing her pinky finger along a small ruffled tuff of Pan's neck-fur, "you s'pose they ain't needing us-our business-so much?"

"Don't let's talk about that now," Lucy suggested. She was tired of all this; she wanted to be happy. She hadn't felt truly happy since the Ruling Powers took Edmund from the flat and left her behind, hidden under that wretched trap-door. Now that she knew he'd escaped, and that they were on their way to a real adventure (meeting a Star Consul!), she didn't want anything to dampen the experience of jubilation. Especially not, she thought, that horrid prejudice against the Gyptians she meant to do something about one day-hopefully sooner rather than later.


	16. Fencing with Iorek

"Right this way," grunted Maugrim, leaving Peter's side and leading the whole party up a craggy-looking pathway towards a row of ice cliffs.

"This can't be right, you know," Stelmaria whispered to her human, glancing over at Maugrim with a slightly distrustful expression. She deliberately fell a little behind the others. "If we went the other way, surely it would be better; whereas this way, we're out in the wilderness longer, in bad weather conditions, and walking on a slippery terrain."

Pretending to adjust the rifle strap on his shoulder, Lord Asriel leaned down and whispered back, "We must watch ourselves, Stelmaria, but we'll give this a chance."

"Remember when we were this far north and we were captured on higher grounds?" Stelmaria's great cat-eyes widened.

"That blasted Coulter woman sent them after us."

"Well, we've got one and a half Coulters with us now. What does it matter if they've chanced their surnames? Are we really going to trust them?"

"We may need the help of an alethiometrist later," Lord Asriel admited under his breath, so that he could be positive only his dæmon could hear him. "You know I'm out of practice at even the simple readings of the instrument I was familiar with. I wouldn't let him know that, give that wrenched boy a big head, but we may need him."

"We don't have an alethiometer," the snow leopard pointed out.

"Not, not right this moment," said Lord Asriel practically.

"Maugrim's going further up now," Stelmaria noted warily.

"Don't worry, Stelmaria," her master whispered, shaking his head. "We've nothing to fear. For the time being we all seem to be on the same side. Anyway, Susan Pevensie-and her dæmon-is no one for us to be anxious over. She's probably even more easy to control than her mother was."

"You couldn't control Marisa," his dæmon remarked, flicking her snow-coloured tail for emphasis.

"Not in the end, no," he whisper-hissed, feeling quite exasperated with himself through his dæmon's irksome chiding. "She became too powerful when she joined forces with the Ruling Powers and started the work at Bolvangar…But she's gone now; and her daughter may be more like her than she realizes, yet I somehow doubt she will ever join forces with the Ruling Powers. She's been too close to that lifestyle for comfort. I predict she'll make other mistakes very like her mother's sins, but not that one."

"True enough." Stelmaria shrugged her strong, muscular white shoulder blades.

"Lord Asriel!" Peter called to him over his shoulder, looking back; the nobleman still appeared to be adjusting the shoulder strap on his rifle and he was taking a terribly long time with it. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yes," he said, "just a moment."

"Maugrim," said Peter to his wife's dæmon, "we'll wait a moment; Lord Asriel needs a minute to catch up."

Maugrim rolled his eyes, his mistress's distain for the absolutely horrid Lord Asriel flashing in them. If he had been feeling less vulnerable being away from Susan, he would have made a biting remark. As it was, he only looked at Peter half-crossly and growled impatiently.

Edmund muttered something unpleasant under his breath which Trumpkin heard and had to swallow back a laugh of faint amusement at by twisting his lips into an even grumpier pout-line than usual, his thick red eyebrows furrowing. Ella flew over to Maugirm and they appeared to be commiserating for a second before she flapped her wings and soared back to Edmund's shoulder where she had previously been perched.

They kept on walking for a few miles, everybody fully trusting Maugrim except for Lord Asriel who, when he thought no one was looking, checked the small black-rimmed compass he had in his coat pocket so he could be sure of the way back; just in case.

In the purplish hazy light reflecting off of the icy path, a giant figure began to come into view.

Fresh snow was failing and Edmund had to blink a few flakes off of his eyelashes before he could study the figure. There was a long head-whiter than the snow was-and a powerful mouth. Its nose was graciously-sized and very, very black against the pale contrast of nearly everything else around it. There was a glimmer of something shinning-like armour-and it stuck Ella and her human at the same time that this was an armoured bear.

Lord Asriel lifted his rifle, but Maugrim growled and told Stelmaria to control her blasted human and not to be such a fool. This bear, the wolf-dæmon assured them, was a friend. This was who was going to help them now; he himself had to get back to Susan before she became immune to that stuff the witches were making her drink by the bucket-load.

Peter was the first to recognize their old friend. "Iorek! Iorek Byrnison!"

"Hullo, Peter," the bear's voice rumbled.

"I have to go now, Peter," said Maugrim suddenly, his fur bristled uncomfortably and his eyes weary-looking.

Peter turned half-way around and shifted his gaze from Iorek to Maugrim; he didn't want the wolf to leave, missing his wife as much as he did and not wanting to let the only part of her he currently had with him go, but he understood that he must.

"Goodbye, Maugrim," sighed Peter, and reached down and lightly stroked the wolf-dæmon's ears. "Send back my love to Susan; and Lucy-if you happen to see her before I do."

"She misses you a lot," Maugrim told him.

Peter's brow crinkled. "Who, Lucy?"

"No, not _Lucy_ , you moron; I'm not _her_ dæmon!" snapped Maugrim, his lips curling up into a sneer. " _Susan_."

"Oh, right."

"Seriously, she misses you. She cries at night." Maugrim winced, seeming to sense something as soon as the words were out of his mouth, though his human was far away. "And she's mad that I just told you that." His ears flatted; his human's discomfort was having an affect on him that miles, however many of them there were between them, could not sever. Oh, if ever they should be truly severed-torn apart like those poor children at Bolvangar! Maugrim shuddered at the very thought.

"Why is she mad?" Peter couldn't keep a slightly playful flicker out of his eyes, even though they were almost glassy from being so tired and from the dreadful climate, as he said this.

Maugrim actually sort of smiled as he answered, "Oh, she just doesn't want you to worry about her, that's all. She's fine."

"So long, Maugrim," Ella cawed.

"Goodbye, Ella," he said; "and I will tell Susan that her brother is well, if she's unsure."

They stood and watched the wolf-dæmon disappear, going back down the way they'd all come, until he vanished into the next ice-walled bend altogether.

"How have you been, Iorek?" Edmund asked, to break the awkward silence that followed Maugrim's departure.

"As well as can be expected," said Iorek, his voice darker than he probably intended it to be. It is hard for someone with as deep a voice as Iorek not to sound unpleasantly stern or gruff. "I saw Scoresby in Trollesund; I didn't dare go into Norroway, of course, and I needed a port near the water to get seal blubber from-my armour was getting stiff and creaky."

Edmund couldn't help thinking that the bears back in Svalbard probably never had to adjust or clean much of anything on their perfectly up-kept, unscathed, soulless armour; never-mind attend to the chinks the way Iorek did.

"Someone from Serafina Pekkala's witch clan was sent to tell him that I was coming. I'm not sure how they knew-but they did-and she told Scoresby to make sure I was waiting here. I have to admit I wondered how you would find me without a guide…then I saw the wolf and I understood," Iorek explained.

Peter nodded and Lord Asriel's dæmon yawned widely, showing all her pearly teeth in her typical unnerving fashion.

But Edmund did nothing to show he'd heard anything Iorek was saying; he was staring down at the ice bear's great white paws (such powerful, terrible paws). No one can trick an ice bear, his mother had told him. Looking at Iorek now, he could believe that. Still, the Svalbard _panserbjørne_ had paws every bit as massive as Iorek Byrnison's; so what made this bear so different from them? How to explain that Iorek was so much more awe-inspiring, so much more…well, _real_ …?

He was still thinking almost obsessively about this, unable to get it out of his head, as Lord Asriel and Peter started working on a campfire, only even remotely snapping out of it when Lord Asriel called him a rather choice name that insults a person who is against the government. It struck Edmund as odd that Lord Asriel of all person would call him that, but he merely shrugged it off and Ella ruffled her feathers indifferently. One thing about Lord Asriel saying that word, being who he was, as against the Ruling Powers as anyone, made it clear that he likely wasn't serious; and even if he was, coming from him, it wasn't particularly scaring or hurtful. Edmund didn't care what Lord Asriel thought of him either way. They both had a fairly low opinion of each other and had mutually decided to suppress their dislike-even hatred, it seemed, in Lord Asriel's case-for the time being.

Soon they were all sitting round the campfire at what was probably the twilight hour, though none of them (except for possibly Iorek, who knew northern skies better than some humans know their own dæmons) could be sure, since the dense clouds had had the same purplish-gray colour for several hours now and the sun looked as if it had been standing still, peeping out at them dimly over the very edge of the world.

After a tuck-in of some dried meat and flat bread, and some hard cheese he tried-and failed, doing nothing more than scorching it and wasting the wedge-to toast over the fire, Edmund looked for Iorek and Lord Asriel, expecting them-and maybe Peter, too-to be making some travel plans. However, they were doing no such thing at the moment.

Lord Asriel was slouched over, sleeping, having had one too many swigs from his silver flask; his dæmon snoring heavily.

"Lord Asriel's asleep," Edmund remarked, twisting his neck around to talk to Peter, who turned out to be curled up next to the snuggest spot the fire had to offer, using his traveling pack as a pillow. Looking to Ella, he added, "Apparently so is Peter."

"Iorek's still awake," said Ella.

"So?"

"So, didn't you want to ask him about the Svalbard bears?"

He did, very much so, but he was also a little afraid. There had to be some reason Iorek rarely spoke of Svalbard or of his old acquaintances there. Yes, Iorek was his friend, but he was also a very strong, very wild animal; if he should offend him deeply enough, what would prevent the bear from tearing him limb from limb?

"You're not scared…" Ella clanked her beak and narrowed her big eyes at her human. "You _can't_ be scared. We can't be scared of a friend; not after we faced the Ruling Powers head-on, even getting deported. Why would Iorek ever do anything worse to us than that?"

Ella was right, of course. Edmund knew he was being a bit silly. This was even more absurd, he realized, than his irrational fear when he'd seem Maugrim on his own without Susan. It was so strange to think that, even after being Edmund Belacqua for so long now, his years growing up as a Coulter still had some effect on his thought patterns, on his superstitions and the way he reacted to certain things. Lucy would have asked Iorek, he was fairly certain, if she wanted to know something as badly as he did right then. She wouldn't have hesitated; the Pevensie girl would be at that bear's side right this minute, the question already firing out of her mouth.

He thought, then, of how Iorek had carried them to the ice bridge so long ago. Most of his fear seemed to melt away like ice under a hot, directly shinning sun. He would go now. He would find out what he wanted to know.

Iorek was staring up at the sky as Edmund tried to approach him as quietly as possible, curious to see if he could sneak up on the bear or not. For that would have been a sort of trick. He didn't believe Iorek would fall for it, but he wanted to see for himself. Too many times in his life, he had taken other people's words as the letter of the law. Since becoming an alethiometrist, he'd learned that sometimes you had to search for an answer and not take every so-and-so's 'yes and no' for solid, undisputable fact.

Before Edmund even got close, the ice bear had swung his head and was facing him. He could not, apparently, sneak up on a bear-or at least, not _this_ bear.

"How do you do that, Iorek?"

"Do what, boy?"

"Know I'm coming from behind before I come," he said, lifting his arm so that Ella could walk down from his shoulder and rest on his out-stretched wrist for a bit. "Hear me even when I think I don't make any noise? Is it that you have better hearing than humans; or is it…I mean, if I stuck up on a bear from Svalbard like that..."

The great white beast shook his head vehemently. "You cannot trick a bear, Edmund."

"Why?"

"Because we aren't human. Tricking and falling for tricks is a human quality."

"But, Iorek, that's just it," said Edmund. "Trumpkin _did_ trick a bear when we were escaping from Svalbard…I know he did…I saw it with my own eyes."

Iorek's dark eyes looked stormy for a moment, flashing with something that might have been wistfulness, disappointment, or even angry regret. "The bears are becoming humanized, then? I take it there are many human things in the bear king's dwellings?"

Edmund didn't deny it. "I saw quite a few."

"Shame," muttered Iorek, looking away for a second.

" _You_ can't be tricked, then?" Edmund found himself oddly persistent, and he wondered if his lack of recent opportunities to look for answers and how to read them in alethiometers had left that part of him so empty that he needed this to fill in the void. " _Ever_? I mean…even if…even if you were around only other humans for extended amounts of time-just so long as you didn't start acting like them?"

"When was the last time you ever saw me with other bears, or even _one_ other bear?" He asked pointedly, his voice almost a growl.

"Never." Edmund shrugged his shoulders.

"There you go then."

Ella whispered something to her human and Edmund nodded. "All right, I'll ask him."

Iorek raised a white-gold brow expectantly, over-hearing this.

"Iorek, what about the time you had your armour taken away? Weren't you tricked then?" He took a step or two back because he saw the corners of Iorek's teeth appearing as his lips curled up into a snarl.

Ella let out a whistle of faint alarm before she-and Edmund-realized that it was himself the great ice bear was angry with.

"Yes, it was." Iorek blinked twice. "And getting drunk isn't something bears are supposed to do, it's a human sin."

"If the bears all start committing human sins, will they be easy to manipulate?"

"For the Ruling Powers, you mean?" Nothing got by Iorek, however subtly phrased it was.

"Yes," confessed Edmund, wincing at the thought.

"Of course." The bear's broad shoulders heaved into a heavy shrug. "They willingly kept you prisoner when you had committed no wrong against them. They can be tricked now, I suppose, as well as bribed. I am glad my father is not alive to know of this."

"Your father?"

"Died a long time ago," said Iorek curtly. Then, "Come now, Edmund, step closer, I won't harm you. I want to show you something."

Edmund stepped forward and the bear reached out his left front paw, flipping it over so Edmund could see the thick, black padding under the white fur. It was smooth like gilded leather, but much, much stronger-nearly as tough as the metal Iorek could so easily work with.

"See my shield."

Ella whistled again, only out of admiration this time, not alarm or fear.

"Now," said Iorek, retracting his claws and holding them three inches away from Edmund's face, "see my weapons."

The alethiometrist's eyes widened and he gulped involuntarily.

"One more thing." Iorek motioned with his nose towards an only slightly knobby pine branch roughly the size of the average sword a gentle-bred nobleman would carry on his person. "Break off the knobby pieces and hold it like you would a broadsword; you'll try a bit of fencing with me."

Fencing with a _panserbjørne_! Even in his surprise and apprehension, Edmund was well-aware that this was not something many people could claim to have done in their lifetime-something that (if he survived this war against the Ruling Powers and was able to marry) he would tell his children and grandchildren about.

All the same, a single frozen bead of sweat clung to his forehead. Ella alighted from her master's arm and landed on a nearby rock, scratching against the stone nervously with one of her claws.

Iorek stared peacefully at Edmund, glancing away from time to time. Apparently he expected the alethiometrist to make the first move. But it was just that very sense of peacefulness that made Edmund _not_ want to do it; it wasn't cowardice, it was a sudden desire not to ruin the expression on the bear's face at that moment.

Still, plagued by curiosity and knowing Iorek was waiting, he finally thrust the branch close to the ice bear's side. At first he didn't actually make contact, but then, as this got dull, and Iorek seemed to be doing nothing whatsoever about it, he lunched forward to lightly poke him.

Within an instant, the branch was flicked out of his hand. He hadn't even had time to see and register that the bear had shot out his paw in defense. And yet, there was the branch; it was uncracked, at least, but it lay so uselessly on the ground. He couldn't help but think that the same would have become of a real sword-if he'd had one-as well. Amazing!

Iorek nodded, letting him know it was all right to try again.

This time, Edmund, pathetic and pointless as he knew it was, tried to act as if he were about to aim with the branch one way while really going to do the exact opposite. It was the most fruitless attempt ever seen under the sun; Iorek seemed to know what he was planning even before he planned it and always flicked the branch aside.

On the last try, this time honestly trying-not to trick the bear, but to attack from the front, just to see what would happen-Iorek pinned him onto the ground, flat on his back.

Breathing heavily, Edmund stared up into the bear's serious face, imagining how much more terrifying the whole ordeal would have been if Iorek had bared his teeth or snarled. The branch was hopelessly far away, and if the fight had been real, he would have lost.

One of Iorek's paws was on his left arm. It lay heavily; Edmund knew that if Iorek had chosen to push in, his arm would have snapped clean in half, into two neat, broken pieces.

"I hope that answers your questions," said Iorek.

 _I dare say it does!_ Thought Edmund, still breathless with awe, feeling a tremor of adrenalin shooting up and down his spine.

"You do not need to fear me, despite what I've just shown you. I still fight on your side," the white bear told him after a pause. "It was your mother that assisted in the one time I was tricked, taking my armour, it's true. But it was your sister who told me where to find it again. To her, I owe a debt; never have I forgotten that. I serve you and the others in your campaign against the Ruling Powers until I am dead-or you have a victory!"


	17. The Star Consul

Neither Lyra nor Lucy understood why Farder Coram made them wear head-scarves over their hair when the Narrowhaven harbor came into view; but, trusting and loving him as they did, they obeyed.

"I'll bet he's worried that yous got hair too light to be Gyptian," Billy Costa whispered to them while the others were too busy guiding the ship toward the docks, talking quietly about something they obviously didn't want Lyra and Lucy to be concerned about just yet. "Most Gyptians got dark hair, right? Yous both got light brown. Lyra's looks darker than it used to, but it's still too light for a Gyptian, I s'pose." Ratter twitched her whiskers pointedly.

"What does it matter if we're Gyptians?" Lucy wondered aloud.

"Theys probably think Farder Coram stoled yous from somewhere."

"We ain't little girls no more, Billy Costa!" huffed Lyra, with more contempt than was really called for.

"So? They'll still think you was stoled." He ran his fingers absently through his own, noticeably dark, hair. "Lyra, you got a child's nose, and Lucy's face looks younger than fourteen…I think it's cause it's so round and all."

They scowled at him dually, not sure who should take the most offence.

"Lee Scoresby didn't make me cover my hair in Trollesund," said Lucy a few moments later, when she had chosen to forgive Billy. "Why do think he didn't? When he was handing me over to a group of Gyptians and everything?"

"I dunno," said Billy Costa. "Maybe he just assumed everyone would think you was his daughter or sumthin'; and the Gyptians didn't keep you in the open too long anyways."

Reepicheep, sitting on Lucy's lap, cleared his throat and let out a light squeak as the ship came to a complete stop.

Narrowhaven _was_ very like Trollesund or Norroway but-Lucy felt-somehow much less inviting; there was an air of touch-me-not about nearly everything in sight (from the houses nearest the cost, to the scaffold, to the neat little shops and surprisingly well kept up taverns) that was not present in the other port towns-or, at least, not so _overtly_ present. One could believe that this had once been a place where folks went about their business and turned a blind eye to an abominable slave trade.

Feeling a bit sick, Lucy wished they could be at the Star Consul's house already.

Lyra may have been feeling the same, but she watered these nervous emotions down differently than her half-sister did. Whereas Lucy gawked and worried and clutched Reepicheep a little tighter, despite the fact that she knew he didn't like that as a general rule, Lyra became more talkative even than usual and pestered Farder Coram and Caspian with endless questions. How far was it to the Star Consul? Did the people at Narrowhaven always look so tight-faced as the few she saw going by? Was Billy Costa's guess about why they had to wear head-scarves correct or was there some other big secret going on that she didn't know about?

If Ma Costa had been there, she would have eventually said, "Be quiet, girl!" and let that be an end to it; but Farder Coram was a much more grandfather-like person, terribly prone to spoiling those he was fond of, and he put up with it beautifully, even managing to _answer_ a question or two before another one came flying out of Lyra's over-excited mouth. She finally stopped when Pantalaimon bit her lightly on the ear, showing that they were more afraid than their prattling let on.

Thankfully, as they climbed down onto the wooden deck and strolled calmly into town, no one seemed to take much notice of them. If anybody thought it was odd that a dark-skinned manservant with a lynx dæmon was following a group of Gyptians and two young women with their heads covered, they didn't say anything about it to them.

At first, Lucy and Reepicheep thought the ground was pitching up and down; but that was only because that's how a person feels when they've been at sea for a bit and then come back to land, and soon enough walking on solid ground felt normal again.

Farder Coram was the one who was really guiding them and their direction, of course, but they seemed to be making it appear as if it were Drinian (really, his role in their navigation was mostly sea-wise).

"Do you s'pose," Lyra whispered to her pine marten, "that they think it'd be suspicious for someone as old as Farder Coram to be the leader? Cuz, it's him that knows where this Consul is-only him."

"I don't know," murmured Pantalaimon under his breath. "But we ought to play along. If they're worried about Narrowhaven, they must be trying to do something under-hand to protect us."

"Oh, look, Pan," said Lyra suddenly, holding back a gasp under the breath with which she was speaking. "Do you see which way we're going now? That's some sort of an alley, ain't it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Farder Coram's saying something to Emeth now…He's lighting a lantern."

"It's dark in there," said Pantalaimon.

"Course it is." She sighed absently. "Come on, let's keep going, even Billy Costa is ahead of us now."

"Farder Coram's looking over his shoulder for you," Pan added sharply. "Go faster, you're making him anxious."

"Alright, alright," she snapped. "Don't boss at me like that, I can see for myself, and I'm going-so there. He's fine now, see?"

Lucy, meanwhile, had edged quite close to Farder Coram's side and now found herself pressed up against it, one of his arms around her shoulders protectively. (Caspian got a firm grip on one of Lyra's arms.)

Up ahead there was fog, lots of fog. Lucy thought it was sort of dirty, like smog from London. Reepicheep coughed; Ratter sneezed; Pantalaimon's breathing was slightly heavier. Then the atmosphere felt a little cleaner, though the fog hadn't lifted. The mist itself, however, surrounding them still as they turned another bend that neither of the girls nor Billy Costa would have even noticed if not for Farder Coram's direction, was noticeably whiter than it had been further back. And, ever so slowly, it seemed either to clear, or else they merely stepped out of it.

"This is the way Serafina took me before," said Farder Coram to Caspian, who was unfolding the map Rhince had given Emeth. "I'm sure of it. We don't need that just now. Roll it back up; save it for later."

Directly in front of them now were what seemed to be a few acres of beautifully manicured lawns of bluish-green grass and scattered hedges in round shapes that Lucy guessed where meant to be representations of planets or stars, and Lyra, who knew preciously little about outer-space in any world (aside from the bits Mrs. Coulter had been able to teach her during the short time she'd lived with her), registered merely as 'large circles'.

Further up and further in, there were other hedges, these shaped very like cocks.

"I bet they was dæmons," said Lyra; "someone who lived round 'ere once must've had a cock dæmon."

"You don't know that." Billy raised an eyebrow at her and folded his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, I do," she insisted, her voice huffy. "Course you wouldn't, not having ever lived at Jordan." A silly childish distain for persons-and scholars-who did not know Jordan, had never been raised nor educated there, was peeking up like a sore thumb; and she sounded as if she thought herself-and Lucy-a bit superior to Billy because of it. "Theys got crypts underground if you lift a cellar door, right, and there's a whole lot of dead Masters buried down there with their dæmons carved into their caskets and coffins and all."

"That ain't a coffin," retorted Billy. "That's a large bush."

"I ain't stupid." She pouted at him. "I know a bush when I see one, I was only sayin' that-"

Caspian shook her arm-which he was still gripping-lightly. "Be quiet, Lyra, I do not think Farder Coram wants us to approach the Star Consul's house quarrelling."

She was sullen at having Caspian-who wasn't old enough (like Farder Coram was, for instance) to tell her what to do-giving her an order. Yet she still obeyed for whatever reason, pressing her lips tightly together and only speaking occasionally to Pantalaimon through her teeth when she had a thought or two she couldn't keep in.

Caspian's seagull dæmon flew over to one of the cock-hedges, landing on the figure's nose, waiting for his master and the others to catch up.

Finally, when Lucy was beginning to feel as if she were in a sort of dream walking through an endless haze where one gets sleepy but never actually tired, a living creature, peeking out from behind one of the cock-hedges, appeared.

It appeared to be a little bearded man-rather like a dwarf but somehow different, less intelligent looking than any dwarfs the Gyptians, Emeth, or the girls had ever met-with stupid, yet friendly, glinting eyes with dull black irises.

Looking downwards, Reepicheep noticed something. "He's only got one foot."

And so he had. He was as steady on his one large, mushroom of a foot as most persons are on their two feet. If he had no other apparent virtue, it could at least be said of him that he didn't look as if he were-in spite of his odd little shape-at all clumsy.

"Don't be afraid," Farder Coram said.

The girls weren't sure if that was directed towards them, or else towards the little man, and gathered, in the end, that it could have gone either way.

The little man stared very hard at Lucy and Lyra for a moment, then hopped off on his foot, making the ground shake as if he'd just hit it with a heavy sledge-hammer.

"Phew!" exclaimed Billy Costa, half-laughing. "Did yer ever see anythin' jump like that? Like a frog."

"Or grasshoppers," Caspian offered.

"What was it, Farder Coram?" asked Lyra. "It en't a dwarf…not like the dwarfs we're used to…can't be."

"It's a Dufflepud." Farder Coram smiled amusedly, shaking his head. "Harmless. Gave me a start the first time I saw 'em with Serafina, though."

"Them?" repeated Lucy in surprise. "There's more than one, you mean?"

"Oh, bless me, yes," he told her. "It's them that's in charge of the gardening and all. Employed by the Star Consul."

"They don't seem…" said Lucy, wanting to be honest but also not too cruel-sounding in the way she phrased her question. "…They aren't very... _clever_ …are they?"

"Good lord, no." Farder Coram shook his head again. "No, no, of course they aren't. I was a wondering why Coriakin even put up with them; seems either that he'd feel guilty about throwing their kind to the wolves so to speak, seeing as they're too stupid to get employment elsewhere, or that he was inflicted with watching over them as some sort of punishment. Both, I shouldn't wonder."

"Oh, look!" cried Lucy, laughing so hard that she had to pull away from Farder Coram to hold her aching side. "The funnies!"

"Where-" began Lyra, but stopped because she saw them, too, within a second or so.

There was a group of Dufflepuds; about half of them were jumping around, looking not unlike small, ugly-faced children playing at ring-around-the-rosy, while the others were planting something much too large to be a seed.

"What they planting?" Billy wanted to know, straining his eyes to get a closer look without straying from the path as far as his foot-steps went.

"It could be some sort of big white bean," Lucy thought aloud.

"A coconut?" guessed Reepicheep, unsurely.

"It's not a bean," announced Caspian's seagull, flying close enough to get a good look without the Dufflepuds (who, like the dwarfs to which they were distantly related, had no dæmons of their own to sense his presence) noticing. "It's a peeled potato!"

"Why are they putting a perfectly good potato in the ground like that?" Caspian said, incredulous.

Farder Coram shrugged. "You know they ain't clever," was all he said in reply.

"They gonna stop us from getting into the house?" Billy asked.

"I shouldn't think so," said Drinian coolly. "If they're as dim-witted as Farder Coram says, why would it cross their minds to do so?" He added, glancing over at them as they dug another hole and ruined another perfectly good potato by burying it, "They seem rather pre-occupied."

"Where I came from," said Emeth quietly, almost startlingly since he hadn't spoken up in a while, "a lordship's servants wouldn't be permitted to act so. Not even under-guards or generals would be allowed to be so obviously lenient. Why, Lord Rabadash would have had me whipped within an inch of my life if I'd sat around burying freshly peeled potatoes-in front of guests I was meant to be showing to the door, no less!"

"Lord Rabadash seems like quite the cheerful fellow." Farder Coram spoke these words dryly, sardonically, meaning the exact opposite.

I hope, if he's still alive somewhere, thought Lucy, that he's forgotten about Susan; it would be dreadful if we had to deal with his stupidity and rage on top of settling the Ruling Powers and getting some human rights for the Gyptians organized.

The Star Consul's house, now only a few feet in front of them, appeared to be a cross between a white-walled multileveled inn and an old English countryside manor; two or three scattered towers branched off, twisting inwardly, unexpectedly, from the stone parapets, also briefly calling to mind a medieval castle that might have belonged to a duke or a viscount in olden days-in that world, and in some others.

They knew it would be pointless to wait and see if the Dufflepuds would realize they ought to show them in and tell their master (whom they were too idiotic to know for a star and so called, amongst themselves, sometimes with horror and other times with distain, 'the magician') company had arrived, so they went in unbidden.

"I say, Lucy," said Lyra in a small voice as she took in her surroundings, "I en't scared to be here, really I ain't. But I _am_ glad we got Farder Coram with us; I dunno if I'd feel at all safe coming into a place-to meet a star we don't know-if he weren't 'ere to explain who we were."

"I should think not," agreed Lucy, glancing round.

Indeed, they had some excuse, if they found themselves gawking-or even cowering a bit (Pantalaimon had his head buried in his human's collar)-at catching sight of the interior. It was far darker and a great deal more sober than they'd expected, nearly every curtain-each a dense gray colour with a woolen texture to them-tightly drawn.

"This way," Farder Coram guided them. His cat-dæmon flicked her tail. "We ought to go towards the stairwell. It's no use to us being on the first floor; the Dufflepuds live down here." He pointed to a hollowed hallway to their right that made Lyra think of the deadened subway station she'd traveled into the Pevensies' world through so recently. "Serafina told me they've got their dinning hall and kitchen and pantry down there. Coriakin lives upstairs."

Such a staircase they came to! It wasn't made of marble or grayish stone; the steps were obviously simple, yet high-quality, polished wood over-laid with beautiful carpeting of a dark mustard-gold mixed with scattered, but not random, brown patterns. The railing was made of solid silver with smartly engraved runes in it, not only for decoration, but also to give it some traction to prevent possible accidents. (Only Farder Coram, who couldn't manage with his bad legs, actually used the railing as they climbed upstairs; the others felt too eerie, as if it were something sacred.)

Once on the second floor, they were in a hallway with carpeting of the same sort as the stairs. There were many doorways, some open and some closed.

"It'll be the last door," said Farder Coram. "On the left. The Consul has a study in there, I believe. That's where we a met him last time, at any rate."

"Do you hear ticking?" asked Billy's Ratter.

"Yeah," said Billy, shrugging his shoulders.

"It's coming from the grandfather clock we're getting near," Pantalaimon whispered to Ratter. "Looks a bit like the one at Jordan."

"Ahhh!" A scream erupted from Lucy.

"Are you all right?" everyone demanded at once.

She blinked and swallowed. The cause of her fright was, it turned out, a little looking-glass, the wood of which was carved in the shape of a beard so that when a person looked at themselves in the glass, their face fit into the fake beard. It was amusing, in context and once it was clearly identified as something 'harmless', but out of the corner of one's eye, just catching a little glimpse of a face with a wooden beard…well, it was unsettling.

Lyra stepped in front of the looking-glass, letting her own face fit into the wooden beard, laughed, and stuck out her tongue at her reflection.

That broke the nervous spell; everyone laughed together, knowing that nothing was wrong at all, everything was well, and now they were nearly at the last door on the left.

Stepping into the room Farder Coram ushered them to was like stepping out a lovely but also rather imposing museum and coming into the homiest library that ever existed. Massive, but not over-whelming, there were more books-even Lyra had to admit-here than at Jordan College; far, far, more than Lord Digory's held. All sorts of books; spines of gold, silver, copper, leather, card paper, and cloth filled the shelves that were built into the walls. There were stacks of books-the sort that have print as well as the sort that are for writing in-on the ground near a podium in the very middle of the room. Above the podium, on the ceiling, was an arch of the most peculiar design that eventually extended downwards in the shape of a great golden bell and hammer.

"Where is he?" Caspian asked, looking confused. The room was splendid, but there appeared to be no one in it besides themselves.

Suddenly Pantalaimon let out a short yelp; Reepicheep's mouth twisted into a grim expression; Caspian's gull flapped his wings in an unsettled manner; and Farder Coram's tabby let out a low, steadying sort of growl, telling them to be calm, that it was all right.

A few feet from where they were standing, a silver outline began to take shape. And coming into appearance the same way a man under an invisible spell does when he has been released of his enchantment and is becoming visible again, was the robed figure of Coriakin the Star Consul of Narrowhaven.


	18. The Star Consul, Continued

"Greetings, Coriakin," said Farder Coram, his voice unwavering.

The Star Consul nodded at him, then looked over at the other people in the room, focusing the longest-it seemed-on Lucy and Lyra.

Lucy took him in as he appeared to be 'summing up' her and her half sister; he was reasonably tall, stout but not fat, and his silvery-brown hair and beard were short and neatly trimmed. There was a graveness about Coriakin, but within a few glances nearly everyone was fairly certain he was not all seriousness-a merry enough person in his core.

"Farder Coram," Coriakin answered, finally and in a low tone, "welcome. Tell me, are these the daughters of Lord Asriel?"

Lyra nodded and blurted out, "Yeah" before Farder Coram could admit to this. Lucy, who didn't see having a father like Lord Asriel and a birth mother she'd never even known as anything at all to be _proud_ of, and hadn't quite had the experiences Lyra had had in being prideful in regards to her 'Uncle Asriel' growing up, said nothing. As deeply and surely and passionately as Edmund knew he was Edmund Belacqua and not Edmund Coulter, so Lucy knew-felt in the very marrow of her most inward bones-that she was a Pevensie. Perhaps, she thought, reflecting on all this sometime later, a Silvertongue is separate from such things-separate enough to admit unashamedly to her identity-she may simply be free through her own new surname, unattached to it all.

Leaning to whisper in the old Gyptian's ear, Coriakin murmured, "They have symbol readers? Alethiometers?"

"Yes," he replied, more tightly than would have been expected.

"Would you like to see them?" Lyra felt she could trust this star, and so gestured at her pocket as if to pull the golden compass out of it.

"Yes, I would," he said. "Lucy's, too, if she wouldn't mind."

By this point, in spite of herself, Lucy was finding Coriakin less and less alarming, and so she took out both the silver pocket watch the Lord Professor had given her when she was eight and the alethiometer she was keeping safe for Edmund. Somehow she knew the Star Consul would not take them from her. Besides, if he was under punishment bad enough to saddle him down with Dufflepuds for servants, maybe he was paying a penance, and it wouldn't be in line with any penance to steal something valuable from two young ladies. And Farder Coram was right there anyways; he would never let anything bad happen.

"Do you have the book of meanings?" the Star Consul wanted to know.

"No," admited Farder Coram, "we've no way of telling what the different symbols mean without it, of course."

"Edmund used to have a book sort of like that," Lucy confessed. "He…his sister got it from Norroway a long time ago. The Ruling Powers took it away when they arrested him."

"Edmund?" repeated Coriakin, as if slightly puzzled.

"Edmund Belacqua," Farder Coram explained, "an alethiometrist. And a particular friend of Lucy's as well."

"He isn't…by any chance…Edmund Coulter the second by birth, is he?"

"Yes," said Farder Coram. "The late Lady Marisa Coulter was his mother."

And the Star Consul looked very thoughtful, though he said nothing in way of explanation for his pensiveness.

After a bit, Caspian cleared his throat awkwardly, and Lyra said, to Coriakin, "Actually, I _can_ read the alethiometer, even without knowing what the symbols mean and all."

"Can you now?" The star looked very interested, but his expression gave away not any hint of whether he was already aware of this by some mysterious means through the others stars, or else the witches.

This uncertainty hovering in the air of the room impelled Lucy to say, "I can read mine, too, Sir."

The startling confessions, while not bothering either of the girls who gave up their 'secret' so readily, unnerved their dæmons a bit-especially Pantalaimon, who was less brave than Reepicheep. They would not settle down (if they had still been able to change, likely they would have been shape-shifting to no end out of anxiety) until Coriakin spoke again and his kind, undemanding tone soothed them into a state of calmness at last.

"That is a very admirable-not to mention, useful-skill, my dears," said the Star Consul graciously, making a motion as if almost to bow to them but not quite doing so. "Would you mind terribly if I asked for a demonstration?" He went to the other side of the room, took two somethings out of a wooden chest filled with countless small items that appeared to be none of their concern (not even Lyra would have dared to ask about them), then returned and held out, in his palms, two bracelets.

And what bracelets! They were utterly exquisite pieces of work; silver thread strung with the daintiest of milky-white pearls. A single diamond quarter-moon pendant, glittering like unbreakable glass, dangled from each of them.

"One of these bracelets," the Star Consul informed them, "was once given by the daughter of Ramandu to Caspian the first." He nodded at Caspian and his seagull dæmon as if to silently add, "Yes, your ancestor." Then, aloud, "The other belonged to a completely different star of no relation to Ramandu or Serafina Pekkala and was never given to anyone as a present. The best I can figure is that, while in the sky, that star dropped it, lost it, and cared not enough for it to come down and fetch it. One of the Dufflepud's, a foolish girl by the name of Clipsie, came across it and appeared to be trying to eat it, and so I had to take it from her and keep it here. Can you, Lyra Silvertongue and Lucy Pevensie, tell me which one was the token of love from Ramandu's daughter?"

Drinian whispered something to Caspian about how it might be easier to for Lucy and Lyra to check the bracelets for teeth-marks than to bother with the alethiometers, and the young Telmarine Gyptian lord had to bite his lower lip to hold back an improper chuckle. (There weren't, by the way, any actual teeth-marks on either bracelet.)

Lucy tucked away the alethiometer she was protecting for Edmund's sake, leaving the silver pocket watch out to use for Coriakin's challenge. For she-and Lyra-had chosen (after an 'it's all right, go ahead and do as he asks' nod from Farder Coram let them know they ought to) to take it up.

Reaching behind himself, Coriakin unrolled a large placemat decorated in the style and pattern of a map of many shockingly realistic-looking islands on a very cornflower-blue sea onto a small table-stand which magically expanded to fit the mat on its surface and admit the two chairs Emeth had wordlessly pulled out for the girls to sit on while they poured over their alethiometers and the bracelets.

"Farder Coram, I would speak with you alone." Coriakin beckoned for the old Gyptian to come nearer to him.

When they were standing in a corner alone together, everyone else more or less twiddling their thumbs or whispering amongst themselves (being dead-silent and standing straight as a poker as he had always been taught from an early age that servants ought to, in Emeth's case) while the girls asked their alethiometers which bracelet was given to Caspian the first and which was not, the Star Consul said, "Are you aware of exactly who these girls are?"

"Well, now," said Farder Coram unsurely, "I knew theys the daughters of Lord Asriel and all. And something about a prophecy, though none of the stars seem willing-or else able-in the way of telling me or the other Gyptians much in regards to it."

"Hmm," said the Star Consul.

"I'd not be a letting them come to any harm for the world," warned the crippled Gyptian. "For their own sake, mind you, not because of any prophecy." He motioned at Lucy. "And that one there, I suppose, will want to marry her alethiometrist one of these days. She loves him even more'n she hates the Ruling Powers and the mistreatment of us Gyptians, and that's sayn' a lot. And I promised Serafina I was bound to protect _him_ as well."

"Be very careful," said the Star Consul warily. "In protecting those girls you will bring danger upon yourself and all close to you. Of course, all the same, protecting them is what you ought to be doing, and I would-in fact-have scorned you and thought the less of you for answering differently than you have.

"I don't have any doubts-not a single one, Farder Coram-that those girls can read their alethiometers, that in a few moments they'll come back over to us knowing which bracelet is which. They are meant to over-throw the Ruling Powers, to destroy them. It is they who will decide the war that is to come, you understand. As for Mrs. Coulter's son, I'm sure you've been told this plenty of times already, my good Gyptian friend, but you will hear it once again: he is part of the solution. The Ruling Powers, even with their limited knowledge of this and their preoccupation with stopping the girls more than anyone else, will not lay down and let a young man who is in their eyes a heretic and a troublemaker, possessing his hard-learned abilities with the alethiometer's meanings and Dust, to live freely."

"He has escaped from Svalbard," Farder Coram protested weakly, fearing for the poor lad.

"For all we know at this stage, it may simply be a case of one prison sentence down and a million more to go." Coriakin shook his head sadly. "Another thing: do you remember how in Bolvangar they were cutting children apart from their dæmons?"

"I'm not likely to be forgetting it, a good deal of those children were Gyptian kids-some of them are dead now. One of those dead, a non-Gyptian, was Lyra's best friend, Roger."

"Are you aware of why they rarely, if ever, preformed the operation on adults?"

Farder Coram shrugged his shoulders. "I think-I don't know, but I do think-that it was because their dæmons can't change shape anymore at any rate so…" He let his voice trail off, having-he felt-made his point already.

"All right. Let me ask it this way then: do you know what happens to someone with a settled dæmon who has the operation?"

"They'd die, wouldn't they?"

Coriakin snorted bitterly with contempt for those horrible scientists who created such a horrible procedure. "Not if it's done right," he replied darkly.

"Begging your pardon, but…" Farder Coram looked a bit puzzled. "…I mean, if Susan Pevensie had been torn apart from Maugrim by Lord Asriel…wouldn't she have died? And her dæmon was settled, no doubt about it."

"She had an unborn child growing in her at the time; so her results would likely have been just the same as a child being torn from its dæmon, which was just what Lord Asriel wanted, you will recall. I am speaking, not of that sort of situation, but of…say, a young man torn from his settled dæmon. Let us suppose now that the man was reasonably healthy and strong and there was no childish burst of energy in the link between himself and his dæmon…that he had Dust and was fully grown in spite of being youngish still. Do you know what would happen to him then?"

Farder Coram felt a shiver run up and down his spine and his tabby whimpered briefly. "No, I don't, I'm afraid."

"Potentially, if its done right, not death, but bland servitude. They might even keep the severed dæmon with its human for the look of the thing; but they would not be one. They would be blank-eyed; the shock alone, something death-dealing to a child, would likely only take away their memories and will of life…they wouldn't be interested in anything. A tragedy to be sure. To be able to do as they're told well enough, but never to think for themselves, or love anything or anybody, or even tell the simplest of stories. Can you even imagine such a disgrace? Truly, something worse than death, even."

"They wouldn't do it to Edmund, though," Farder Coram said with a confidence he did not entirely feel.

The Star Consul's brow shot up. "Oh? And who is standing in their way now? Not Marisa Coulter, I believe. The dead have no authority."

"She wasn't meant to die saving her daughter," Farder Coram realized with a sickening thud in his chest. "Her part in all this, much harm as she caused 'im to suffer through in his childhood, was to protect the man who was once her son from that being done to him…wasn't it?"

"What happened, happened. Destiny has too much to do, sometimes life gives it a show-down and the world is rocked. Fate is thwarted, which is even a good thing…sometimes. It saved Susan's life at least."

"We don't need Lady Marisa," said Farder Coram after a pause of deep thought. "The Gyptians will stand in the way."

"Certainly!" exclaim-murmured Coriakin encouragingly. "But I thought you might want the warning in advance."

"Yes," Farder Coram agreed. "But don't say anything about it to the girls; Lucy has enough to worry about as it is, and Lyra-if she knew-wouldn't hesitate to tell her half sister. She's an odd girl in her own way. Lyra would've proudly kept it a secret if her 'Uncle Asriel' had told her as a small child that he was really her father. She would've kept her mouth shut 'bout Dust, too, if he'd bothered to explain it to her years ago. But this…no, Coriakin, take pity, have a care, and don't tell them that."

"Of course, Farder Coram." He nodded. "If you so wish it, I won't breath a single word of my fears for the alethiometrist to either of the girls."

"Thank you." The old Gyptian breathed a sigh of mild relief. "Now, we a came here in the first place to come up with what we oughter do next…"

"I'm sure you must be weary of waiting," sighed Coriakin, "yet that is what I would suggest for the time being. Go back to the Dawn Treader, wait there."

"For what?" Farder Coram's dæmon let out a low hiss, showing her master's reluctance. "No disrespect, but those girls aren't the sort to just sit and wait when their companions-those they care about-are in danger."

"Trust the stars," he said. "Lyra and Lucy will have such a big part in what is to come-if they could know and truly understand, as even we stars and witches can't, at least not fully anyway-I should think they would welcome the rest. Lion knows they'll need it, poor lasses."

Perhaps their conversation would have gone on a while longer, but it did not as they were interrupted by Lyra, holding onto Lucy's wrist and pulling her half sister along just behind her, running towards them, the bracelet that had been a gift to Caspian the first dangling from the clenched palm of her free hand.

"This is the one!" she announced proudly. "Lucy and me checked both alethiometers; it's this one alright."

Panting slightly, Lucy smiled at the Star Consul and Farder Coram. Lyra beamed at them both, eager to see Coriakin's reaction to their correct reading of the alethiometers.

"Good work." The Star Consul smiled back, looking as if he meant to put a hand on the each of the girls' heads but not actually doing so. "That's the right one. You keep those alethiometers safe, you're very lucky to be able to read them so fluently."

Although usually proud of being able to do things others couldn't, Lyra blurted out, "But anyone could learn, couldn't they? I mean, Edmund did."

"Edmund isn't just 'anyone'," Lucy told her firmly, interjecting in his defense.

"That's not what I meant." Lyra pouted, letting go of Lucy's wrist.

"Nor is it what I meant, Lyra," said the Star Consul. "You're lucky to be able to read them _without_ years of studying. And, Lucy, you're quite right; Edmund isn't just anyone. It didn't take him half so long as it would take most men to learn the alethiometers meanings. You're very fortunate to have so clever and studious a person for a friend."

Lyra wondered, rather amazed at Coriakin's way of smoothing things over so totally, and with such sincerity, how he had ever gotten punished so badly to have to live here as a consul instead of in the sky, watching over those stupid Dufflepuds. It was not her place, of course, to know a star's sins; somehow she knew that-inquisitive mind put aside-without being told. Still, she _did_ wonder. He was so very diplomatic. Had he always been so? Or had his punishment simply taught him to be?

She was snapped out of her thoughts when Pantalaimon whispered that he'd just heard from Farder Coram's tabby that they were going back to the Dawn Treader. She'd sensed that the two dæmons-hers and Farder Coram's-had been talking a second or so ago, but, being focused on another line of thought herself, it had only sounded like the buzzing of a fly for the most part, and she'd only caught a word or two. Now she was annoyed. She didn't want to go back!

Neither, apparently, did Lucy. She wanted to go to meet Edmund at whatever place he made it into as he came out of the snowy wilderness. Coriakin was only able to calm her down marginally by saying that Edmund would come to _her_. He answered her questions; he assured her that Edmund, Peter, Lord Asriel, and a dwarf who was a former manservant of Edmund's were safe and that they had Iorek Byrnison guiding them.

"The stars will give them directions when Iorek no longer can," he promised; "no harm will come on this expedition. When you're all together again, _then_ you can begin to plan your next move. The time is not now. Rest a while."

"But," protested Lucy, "I don't _want_ to rest." Reepicheep looked very fierce…for a mouse, anyway.

"Lucy, he can be trusted," said Farder Coram kindly. "We'll do as he says. There's one more matter I wish to discuss with him; alone. Perhaps the rest of you might be willin' to wait by the door?"

"Before they do, I want to give them something." Coriakin picked up the bracelet that had not once belonged to Ramandu's daughter. "Better owned by one of you than eaten by a Dufflepud's imp of a child."

Lucy did not seem to care much about having it, pretty as it was, so Lyra took it and fastened it around her own wrist.

Next, the Star Consul picked up the other bracelet, somehow managed to pluck off a pearl without breaking or tearing the thread, and handed the pearl to Caspian the tenth. "I can't give you the whole thing. I may need to use it in way of contacting Ramandu's Daughter. But, I'd like you to have a piece of it; I'm sure she'd want you to."

Caspian thanked him under his breath in a short round of stammering, unsure, really, of what he ought to say.

To Drinian, he gave some charts and a book about the moon's influence on the sea-tides; it had been written by a star (what other creature could know the moon better?) and was unavailable in any human library, thus it was of inestimable value.

The Star Consul gestured at Emeth. "You don't say much."

"A servant should be seen only when needed and never heard, my lord."

"What rot," snorted Farder Coram, wishing he could break Emeth out of the habit of crawling in front of his so-called 'betters' like a beaten dog. He had improved over the passed couple of years, but not dramatically.

"Here." Corakin handed Emeth a book of the sort people write in. "You seem like you need a journal more than most."

"Thank you, my lord." He bowed and his dæmon cleared her throat respectfully.

"All right, you can wait by the door now," announced the Star Consul. "I will speak with Farder Coram."

"What you said about Edmund…" Farder Coram raised a brow unsurely.

"They won't catch him on this venture, that's for sure. He's under too much protection; Iorek, the stars…numerous witches…no, they can't hurt him now. Mind that he stays protected, though-the girls, too."

"Yes, thank you, you've been very helpful."

"There is something else?" Coriakin discerned.

"Serafina?"

"Is well. You may tell the girls she has Susan Pevensie with her. She is to be an archer with the witches."

"Thank you."

"If I am contacted by Serafina Pekkala," -he seemed to be reading his mind- "I will tell her you were here."

"Bolvangar," murmured the Gyptian, remembering his promise to John Faa. "Is there a chance…?"

"There is, but don't worry about it, not just yet."

And though it took nearly all their strength and will-power, the group left, going back the way they came, right into Narrowhaven, on their way to return to the ocean and to Caspian's ship, and then, ultimately, to the Dawn Treader.

As they were coming out of the alleyway, into the main streets of Narrowhaven, however, a scowling nobleman who-Lucy thought-didn't have a very nice face at all, noticed them and loudly shouted a rude slur against Gyptians.

Farder Coram, Drinian, and Caspian (however red in the face he'd gone) did their best to ignore it, but Billy Costa, insulted, shouted back, "Yeah? Well, yous ugly! At least we ain't scared of water and nature! You land-people always panic when a storm's a comin', we keep calm. And we en't never done nuffin to you-so there!" Ratter let out a low growling sound that would have been more suited to a tiger-dæmon than a rat.

"Billy," Farder Coram began under his breath. He knew that the people in Narrowhaven mightn't necessarily take kindly to being talked back to…especially by people they used to allow to be sold into slavery without flinching.

But he was not to finish his warning because, just then, despite the fact that it wasn't him that had said anything, the man reached out and shoved Farder Coram onto the ground.

"How dare you!" Lucy was beyond disgusted. To shove anyone, unprovoked, like that was wrong. To shove an old man with bad legs was even worse...it was unspeakable.

Lyra (Pantalaimon draped across her shoulders hissing with his fur all standing up on edge) started shrieking a number of curses that made your average sailor sound like a missionary by comparison.

The man, thinking they were Gyptians, too, because he couldn't see their light hair-still covered by the head scarves-kicked Farder Coram in his side just as the poor old man looked like he was rising back up. He felt onto the ground again with a heavy groan. His tabby let out a helpless mew.

It was that mew that infuriated Reepicheep more than anything prior; that sound of uselessness coming from the dæmon of a man who had once been young, handsome, brave, and had boldly fought in battles that would make men like the cruel one before them now wet their tights and breeches.

Lucy drew her dwarf-sword (the one she'd taken from the flat when she left) and, stepping in front of Farder Coram protectively, held it in front of the man with a threatening air. Reepicheep's sharply standing-out whiskers _dared_ him to try and kick poor Farder Coram again.

Whatever would have happened next (likely, Lucy getting roughly shoved out of the way) did not, for two dæmons, one of them a grey goose and the other a beautiful silver-white falcon, came and flew down to attack the man's pit-bull dæmon. The falcon scratched at the dog dæmon's nose with her sharp claws and the goose appeared to be trying to peck her eyes out.

"It's Kaisa," Reepicheep whispered to his human, gesturing at the goose. "And I think the other one belongs to Coriakin."

Gone very white, the man muttered that they were 'dirty' and 'not worth it' and, shaking uncontrollably, walked away. His dæmon, blinking uncontrollably from the Kaisa's blows, followed right behind him, her short tail firmly between her legs.

The falcon let out a victorious bird-cry and flew away. Kaisa stayed behind a moment and nudged Farder Coram's back with his head, attempting to help him up.

Once Farder Coram was standing upright again, though stiffly and sort of hunched like his back was the top of a question mark hovering over the dot that his feet formed, Kaisa rubbed up against the tabby consolingly, then followed the falcon's lead and flew away himself.

"Farder Coram, I feel awful," said Billy, unable to look his elder in the eye. "Ma's gonna kill me for not keepn' my mouth a shut and getting you beaten like that."

"Billy," huffed Farder Coram, speaking through his teeth in a rough, yet obviously forgiving, voice, "why are yer trying to make this about you? _I'm_ the one who got shoved onto the ground and kicked at." He winced, closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. "Gawd, my legs are a killin' me!"

Thankfully, with Drinian helping him on one side, Caspian on the other, and Emeth in front, Farder Coram managed to make it to the harbor and the ship without too much additional pain.

Lucy, still clutching the hilt of her dwarf-sword, didn't say a word all the rest of that day.


	19. Gael and Pattertwig

That morning, the tenth (or was it the eleventh? She wasn't sure...) she'd spent on the Dawn Treader since returning from Narrowhaven and the Star Consul, Lucy over-slept. Perhaps the Star Consul had been right after all; she _did_ seem to be over-tired and in need of rest.

She awoke with all her fingers curled around her silver alethiometer, its chain twirled about two or three times round her curved index finger, cutting off her circulation ever so slightly. Reepicheep sensed this and found that the tip of his tail was quite numb, slowly coming back to life as his mistress uncurled the chain and massaged her finger until some feeling returned to it.

Feeling strangely groggy, Lucy rose out of her cot and walked to the other side of the cabin where there was a basin for her to wash her face in. After a few splashes of cold water she didn't even bother to dry with a towel, just letting the cool drops run down her neck and into the collar of the faded gray Gyptian-style shift she was wearing for a nightgown, she heard someone knock loudly at the door.

"Lucy, child! You decent?"

She recognized the voice as belonging to none other than Ma Costa, wiped at one side of her still damp face with the sleeve of her shift, then answered, "Yes."

"You dressed yet?"

"Well, no," she admited as the door cracked open part-way and Ma Costa took in what she was wearing.

"Then hurry and get dressed as quick as you can. Come up on deck." The middle-aged Gyptian woman had, at that moment, rather the appearance of trying to hold onto a vague pretense of being stern while really thrilled and excited, holding back some sort of wonderful surprise. "It ain't very chilly; you won't need much. Just be quick about it." A long-repressed smile creased Ma Costa's kindly face as she shut the door and went away.

Curious and eager, Lucy threw on the billowy, dark purple Gyptian dress (the easiest thing to put on since there weren't any clasps or buttons or anything she had to adjust a great deal in order to feel comfortable) and, rummaging through her few things, managed to find one of Edmund's doublets that she'd taken with her out of the flat to wear over it as a sort of sweater. It wasn't in the Gyptian style, of course, but she felt like wearing it anyway; and besides, there wasn't a non-Gyptian ship around within at least eight or nine miles (give or take) of the Dawn Treader, no one to see that she didn't look the part of a Gyptian. So it didn't matter. She could wear, it seemed, whatever she wanted.

Not even bothering to comb her hair, which she hastily pulled out of her face with a borderline useless, hopelessly frayed ribbon, she scooped up her Reepicheep in her arms as if he were a cat and headed for the door. And he, feeling her curiosity and excitement, did not mind.

When she reached the deck, Lucy found that nearly everybody else was already there; Farder Coram, Emeth, Ma Costa, Lord John Faa and his many relatives and attendants, Billy Costa, Lyra, Tony Costa (who was somehow related to Billy and his mother, though neither Lucy nor Lyra were sure how since they had never actually bothered to ask), and very nearly every sailor she knew from the whole of the royal galleon. Also, all the other chiefs of the major Gyptian families were there as well.

Something was happening. It had to be important.

The deck was a sea of dæmons showing their human's earnest and keen feelings. One dæmon seemed to be missing, though. No where could Lucy spot a male seagull with a human who was the same sex as him; Caspian was not there. Neither, she realized suddenly, were Rhince-who should have been with the other sailors but was not-and Drinian. How odd! And she immediately felt horrible for not noticing their absence at once. Yet, the full deck and all the unexplained emotions and beaming faces of everybody (how much more alarming it would have been if their faces had been grave!) had been overwhelming and distracting, to be fair.

"Lyra!" Lucy ran to her half sister and Pantalaimon. "What's happening? Why is everyone looking over the railings like that? And have you seen Caspian anywhere since yesterday morning?" For she suddenly realized she hadn't seen him, not only just now, but also since then.

"It's his ship that's comin'." Lyra reached up to touch Pantalaimon's paw. "Just look. Rhince is with him, too…and Drinian."

"They didn't go back to Narrowhaven, did they?" Lucy's eyes were wider now.

Rhince was afraid of Narrowhaven, wasn't he? Or, if not afraid, he certainly didn't like it. And why would they have to go back? And without taking her or Lyra with them! What if they'd needed the alethiometer to tell them something? A fine mess…no, maybe it was just her pride stinging; she was stuck on the Dawn Treader while they had been off somewhere, having adventures and doing important things as likely as not. She had nothing against rest, but she hadn't wanted any of it for herself since Edmund had been taken by the Ruling Powers. She did rest, but largely at the insistence of others around her, and also urges from her own weary body telling her to take it easy.

Suddenly Lyra was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. "Look, Lucy! There's another person on the deck with Caspian-that en't Drinian or Rhince…Who _is_ that?"

Lucy hung over the Dawn Treader's railing and squinted. Reepicheep balanced on the railing itself, using his long, coiling mouse-tail to keep from falling over, also squinting. There was another person there; a young man, it looked like. He was dark-haired and in clothes that were either second-hand or else borrowed because, even at such a great distance, his shirt appeared a mite too big for his frame, only particularly billowy because of being over-sized.

She couldn't make out his face clearly, yet she felt she knew him. And the closer the ship came to the Royal Galleon, the more certain she felt of this. And he was squinting at her, too. She didn't have to see his eyes to know this; he seemed to be straining over the edge of the ship, with his hand over his eyes to keep the sun out, trying to see her as she was trying to see him. Wondering, is that who I think it is?

"It can't be..." It was Lucy who became sure first. It _was_ him!

That white thing that kept flying from the railing to his shoulder, back and forth, that she was only just noticing but had half-sensed through Reepicheep's seeing it earlier on, had to be his owl-dæmon, Ella.

Edmund! Lucy couldn't believe it. She was so overjoyed that if she thought Farder Coram or John Faa would let her get away with such a thing, she would have jumped into the water and swam straight to Caspian's ship, ordering the sailors to help her on board, then rush straight to Edmund. But she knew better, so she did the only thing she could think of.

She waved to him.

From Caspian's ship, Edmund saw a little brown-headed, female figure with her dæmon on the Dawn Treader's railing, trying to catch a proper sighting of him from the edge of the deck where she stood.

At his side, Caspian finally took pity on him (or perhaps he was worried the boy would upset himself into the ocean with all that leaning and they'd have to delay everything with 'man overboard!' calls), handing the alethiometrist a golden sailor's telescope.

Slowly, Edmund lifted it and peered through.

As if by magic, there she was; he could see her now. There was his Lucy Pevensie and her darling Reep, safe and sound as he'd prayed unendingly that they would be. And she was waving to him, ever more frantically since she noticed the telescope and was aware that he recognized her at last.

Coming up behind him were Lord Asriel and Peter. Lord Asriel didn't care much about seeing anyone; Stelmaria flicked her tail indifferently at Edmund as he offered her master the telescope.

"Fine." The alethiometrist rolled his eyes and handed the telescope to Peter who looked through it, saw Lucy, and smiled. She hadn't noticed her brother yet, having only just identified Edmund, but he saw his baby sister again after all this time, waving and smiling as if her heart would burst with happiness, and a wave of contentment he had not felt in a long while came to settle upon his mind as the ship drew closer and closer to the Dawn Treader.

Edmund and Lucy met at last when the two ships were finally pulled close together enough so that the alethiometrist could leap over the narrow space between them and plop himself directly in front of his former assistant.

They were pretty shaky as they stood, unbelievably, as if in a dream, close enough to reach out and touch each other if only they weren't both secretly fearing it was only a dream and that the other would melt away if they dared to do anything except stare.

Finally, Edmund risked a word. "Hullo."

That greeting broke the spell instantly. The lump forming in Lucy's throat erupted into tears streaming from her eyes as she sobbed uncontrollably and threw herself into his arms. Reepicheep leaned against Ella, who folded one of her soft wings over his back comfortingly.

"At last…" cried Lucy, still blubbering. "Oh, Ed, when the Ruling Powers…" Her voice cracked and trailed off.

"I know," he whispered, trying to swallow his own tears and not quite succeeding. "I know. It's all right now. We're safe…shh…"

To say it was a very touching reunion would be an understatement. Only, it was so bittersweet and full of so much emotion that everybody felt much too choked up to arrive at a better term to describe that beautiful, heartbreaking moment.

There continued to be kissing and crying and embracing on both sides for a while longer, and of course Gyptians weren't at all the kind of persons to think any the worse of them for that sort of thing. But then it was cut short as Lucy noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that standing beside Caspian, Drinian, and some other middle-age man with a familiar-looking leopard dæmon, there was a young man with blonde hair and no dæmon; Peter, it had to be.

She pulled away from Edmund and took a few trembling steps towards her brother. As soon as she'd come near enough to him, he swept her up into his arms and spun her around as if she had not aged one minute over twelve in his absence.

"I missed you!" Lucy cried out happily as he set her back down.

"I missed _you_ ," he laughed breathlessly. "You don't have any idea how worried Susan and I both were when we thought something had gone wrong in this world."

"How are Mum and Father?" Lucy wanted to know, thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, sort of wishing-though she was contented enough with seeing Peter again for the most part-that they could be there, too.

"They're doing well," he informed her. "They miss you, but they're well."

"They must have a grandchild by now…"

"That's right." Peter smirked. "You have a little nephew, Lucy."

"It was a boy, then."

"Christian Coulter Pevensie." Peter leaned close to her ear and added, "Poor chap had a narrow escape from getting named Edgemont."

Somehow, though Peter had said it discreetly, Edmund over-heard and muttered, "Good lord, what was Susan _on_?"

"It's all right, I talked her out of it."

Edmund had one of his arms around his half-sister's shoulders as Lyra said, "I'm surprised she called him Coulter. If I ever have kids, I ain't calling them by _her_ name." She shuddered at the thought of Mrs. Coulter and her golden monkey, who never could, even in death, be 'mother' to her.

"I was given to understand that Susan kept the name for her father," Peter said quietly, not really wanting to get into that. He could see that Edmund was looking uncomfortable at the mention of his former namesake, Edmund Coulter the first, anyway.

There was the sound of a little throat being cleared, and a jittery-looking squirrel-dæmon shifted into a blue-jay and began nudging Ella repeatedly, trying to get Edmund's attention.

Edmund let go of Lyra. "Oh, I'm forgetting."

Forgetting what? Lucy and Lyra both wondered.

In a second they saw what he was referring to. A little girl with long dark hair using a grown man's Gyptian-style tunic as a dress on her small frame, a woolen cape of dark blue that was also much too big for her was slung over her slim shoulders. She was a pretty little thing, with a sweet round face, and at first Lyra wondered if she was a Gyptian because of her skin not being quite so pale as hers and Lucy's was. But then she wondered if it was only a trick of light because the next moment she didn't think the girl looked very Gyptian at all, just ever so slightly darker than herself in complexion, which was barely even noticeable in some lightings.

"Edmund, who is that?" Lucy asked.

"I haven't the foggiest," Edmund laughed. "We found her coming into Narrowhaven. She said her name was Gael and that her dæmon was called Pattertwig, but she couldn't tell us much else."

"I told you not to feed her," Lord Asriel grumped, speaking up for the first time since boarding the Dawn Treader. "We still haven't been able to get rid of her since you took out food from your travel pack and handed it to the urchin. Most useless child I've ever seen in my life."

"She's a bright little thing," Peter defended her, scowling. "I think she may be bilingual, since she says words I can't understand sometimes."

"All that means," scoffed Lord Asriel, "is that she doesn't shut up in more than one tongue. And I _can_ understand what she says most of the time, most of it's absolute rubbish; she speaks English and a few different Gyptian dialects, nothing to be terribly excitable over."

"She's Gyptian, then?" Lyra said unsurely.

Edmund shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."

Lucy found it a little hard to believe Lord Asriel's words (she recognized him not without some coldness and anger, even a bit of fear, bubbling up in the pits of her stomach, by the way) about Gael never shutting up. The poor thing hadn't said a word yet. All she seemed to do was stand there quietly while her dæmon kept on trying to get Edmund's attention.

"If there's a going to be much in way of stories and explanations," John Faa cut in suddenly, "perhaps we'd best take it below deck. We may be far out at sea, but it's never a good idea to have a wanted man out on the open decks for very long." He looked hard at Lord Asriel and Edmund. "And we've got two."

Gael appeared nervous; she seemed to shy away from everyone except for Edmund and the manservant Thorold. She would take Thorold's hand without a second thought, and she kept trying to stand as close to Edmund as she possibly could, as though she thought that as long as she kept him in plain sight she was quite safe, but she avoided Lord Asriel, Trumpkin, and Peter like they were lepers.

Lucy was surprised to see Thorold there, since she couldn't remember the Star Consul saying anything about him, although he'd mentioned Trumpkin indirectly. But, then again, Thorold was sort of like Emeth in a way, very inconspicuous and mild. He could have been trailing along with the whole party the entire time, never commenting on Maugrim or Iorek's presence or where they were traveling to, until he was nearly forgotten by everyone, even narration itself. In fact, if it wasn't for the apparent interest the mysterious little girl showed in him, Lucy thought, rather shamefully, that she wouldn't have taken any notice of him herself. Poor Thorold and his pincher dæmon.

As they went into the cabin Ma Costa and some other Gyptian women were setting out refreshments in, Lucy thought over Gael's apprehension. It made sense that she would be afraid of Lord Asriel; even Lyra, the only child who had ever even remotely had the potential to love him, feared him. Lucy hated the sight of him, too. So no surprises there. If Gael were not used to dwarfs as general rule, that might explain why she wasn't close to Trumpkin. But Peter, now that was harder to figure out. All children loved Peter; it was just something about him, and yet Gael acted as if she thought he was going to reach out with an ashen hand and drag her down into the underworld if she stood too close to him for too long. Then it struck Lucy at last, understanding it all at once. Peter had no dæmon. Gael had probably never seen anyone who didn't have a dæmon before; it was, for her, like seeing a floating head come out of no where. He was harmless-looking enough in himself, but the fact that he had no dæmon automatically made him the stuff of nightmares to this small, sensitive child. He would take some getting used to on her end.

They sat down at a long table, with Lord Faa and Farder Coram at the grandest, highest seats and everyone else lower, the servants at the lowest seats-except for Thorold, sitting at Lord Asriel's right should the brooding, expressionless nobleman need anything, and Emeth who sat with Billy and Tony Costa. Trumpkin sat next to Lyra. Lucy had a seat between Edmund and Peter (she could not will herself to stop turning her head and grinning at them both by turn). Gael was seated between Farder Coram, who she seemed less wary of than the other Gyptians, and the other side of Edmund, the one not occupied by Lucy Pevensie. Pattertwig sat in her lap in the form of a small white westie-dog, trying to avoid Stelmaria's rough gaze.

Trumpkin seemed contented, for one of the Gyptians had given him a pipe to smoke. Curious, Lyra tried to smoke, too, but Ma Costa snatched the pipe she'd gotten a hold of away from her, giving her a cuff upside the head and muttering that the child would be the death of her.

It took several minutes to get everyone to quiet down, and even longer to get Pattertwig to stop barking and saying, in between barks, "Quiet everyone! Quiet!"

Finally, Edmund and Peter were able to begin their story. Lord Asriel had no interest whatsoever in telling it, and so it was left up to them. Peter suggested that Edmund tell it, since it mostly concerned him at any rate and that everyone would want to hear what he had to say about the Ruling Powers and the unnerving information they had managed to get out of Gael.

Taking a piece of something dark that looked very like chocolate but was really only a kind of earthy plant-root Gyptians sometimes used for table decorations on the finer of their ships, trying to bite into it, then not finding it at all nice, Edmund spat out the brownish root, cleared his throat, and began his tale. Ella was perched on the back of his chair, her head turned to the side and her eyes locked on Lucy and Reep.

"Iorek led us as far as he could. Then he didn't want to go into Narrowhaven, and so he left us on our own from there. He wouldn't have been able to go in without causing a major stir amongst the townspeople anyway, he said. We didn't know what to do about Peter because of his lack of dæmon. Lord Asriel suggested one of us going into town and finding a wheelbarrow to hide him in." Here he had to stop and bite back a smirk.

Peter fought a glower; he hadn't enjoyed one second of being stuffed at the bottom of that wheelbarrow. He could have sworn Lord Asriel had hit every single crack on the town pavements with that thing on purpose. Also, Gael had accidentally sat on his head twice because she couldn't see him under the blanket they pulled over him.

"Suddenly," Edmund continued, "this little girl came running out towards us."

Gael sat up a little straighter in her chair.

"She sort of just flung herself at my legs and hid behind me."

"I suppose you'll forget to mention that I was the one who shot the two men who were chasing her," Lord Asriel grunted.

"I still say you should have wounded them, not killed them." Peter sighed heavily. "If we could have questioned them-"

"Shut up, Pevensie."

"Are you going to let Edmund finish the story or aren't you?" Ella finally tore her gaze away from Lucy and Reep to give them a sharp, irritated expression.

"Sorry, Ed."

"It's all right, Pete." Then, "Now here's the interesting part; Gael kept saying something about Dust and how the men were worried about her being dusty and how she wanted to go home because she was scared they were going to hurt Pattertwig."

"I'm not dusty, though," Gael here interjected, thankfully in English. "I had a bath the day before yesterday. One of 'em touched Pattertwig. That's not allowed."

"I don't think they meant _that_ kind of dust," Peter said.

"Any guesses as to what they were actually talking about?" Edmund raised his left brow at the Gyptian closest to him.

"Just like at Bolvangar, how they studied them children before they…" Farder Coram's eyes widened. His tabby mewed.

"They're back," John Faa announced grimly.

"But..." Lucy couldn't understand it. "We destroyed them, didn't we? That battle…I blew up all of their equipment…ask Susan if you don't believe me."

Edmund reached over and squeezed one of her hands consolingly.

"This child is proof that if they haven't already started it up again, they clearly mean to," said Stelmaria borderline-apathetically as her human rolled his eyes and helped himself to a tin-plated mug of coffee.

"She also said something about a market in Narrowhaven," Edmund told them. "I couldn't understand what she was going on about, exactly, she was too worked up and wouldn't stick to English, but I got the idea that it wasn't the regular market place."

"The slave trade again!" exclaimed Lyra, understanding what her half brother was implying.

"The child's had a bit of a shock," said John Faa understandingly; his crow-dæmon clanked her beak. "I think she needs someone unthreatening to get the whole story out of her."

"That's the problem," Peter explained, grimacing. "Edmund's the only one she trusts for some reason. She's taken a liking to him. But everyone else…"

"Why can't it be Ed that talks to her, then?" Lyra asked practically.

"Because he can't understand everything she says when she gets excited and stops speaking English."

"Farder Coram speaks all Gyptian tongues as well as English," John Faa said, "as do I and many other higher-ranking Gyptians. But I'm afraid Gael might be intimated by us."

"Not by Farder Coram," said Lucy. "He's harmless, and she knows it."

"Very well, we'll have Farder Coram take the child into another cabin and try to get her to tell him what happened and where the men took her from."

"I don't think she'll go if I don't, Your Majesty," said Edmund to John Faa, trying not to laugh at this fairly somber moment. "She wouldn't get on Caspian's ship until she realized I was coming on board, too, and was only trying to help Peter out of the wheelbarrow…he'd gotten his foot caught on something."

"Fine," the Gyptian king agreed, "you can go with her. I just don't want to go overwhelmin' the child. So no one else, just you and Farder Coram."

"Come, Gael." Edmund rose from his chair, going over to help Farder Coram up. "We're going to speak with Farder Coram alone."

Pattertwig shifted into a pretty orange cat that looked a great deal like Farder Coram's tabby. Edmund had thought he'd noticed Gael admiring the old Gyptian's beautiful dæmon out of the corner of her eye; this imitation confirmed it.

Before leaving the room with Gael and Farder Coram, Edmund unexpectedly planted a quick kiss on Lucy's cheek. Peter arched an eyebrow teasingly, shook his head, and then pretended not to have seen anything to begin with.

"But, Lord Faa," Lyra said, crinkling her brow, holding Pantalaimon in the crook of her right arm, "there's something I don't get. How'd you know Edmund and Peter and the others were going to be in Narrowhaven earlier? Waiting for you and all."

"A star came and told us," he said simply. "She a landed right on the deck and told us where we ought to meet up with them. As soon's Ma Costa knew they were a heading back with them, she went to tell Lucy to come on deck. We all knew she was anxious to see Edmund and Peter." Then, to Caspian, "No, I see that lovesick look on your face, but it weren't Ramandu's daughter…twas a different star."

Caspian nodded, trying to act calm, as if he didn't care either way, didn't know what the king was talking about. But Lyra and Lucy both noticed he kept putting his hand in his pocket, rubbing his fingers along the pearl the Star Consul had given him.

John Faa then asked Peter if he had any idea whether or not Gael had Gyptian blood in her or else simply spoke some of their tongues.

"I think she's got a touch of Gyptian in her at least," Ma Costa put in thoughtfully. "She rather looks the part to some extent and she en't frightened of the sea, nor's she taken sea-sick from the motion far'as we know. Her voice, well, it's more land-bred than ours, course, but well…you heard her all the same…that's our kinds of tones coming from that gentle-bred child's mouth. Be darned if it ain't."

"Before they died one of the men," Peter said, too softly, looking embarrassed, "called her a bas-" He stopped and looked at Lucy and Lyra. "A name I'd rather not repeat in front of the girls. You don't know of any Gyptians that might have…with some non-Gyptian..." His voice trailed off, but just about everyone knew what he meant.

John Faa shook his head. "I would not be a knowing, not directly. No one would have mentioned it."

"Gyptians don't speak of scandals the way land-peoples tend to," said Tony Costa.

"I'm going to ask the alethiometer," Lucy decided, taking out the silver pocket watch and also suddenly remembering that she hadn't given Edmund his alethiometer back. Oh well, they'd see each other again in a bit, she'd give it to him then.

Lyra would have checked hers as well, but she'd left the golden compass back in her cabin. She didn't think the Gytpians would try to take it. After all, living on the Dawn Treader wasn't at all like living with Mrs. Coulter and her horrid monkey-dæmon.

When she looked over at Lord Asriel, though, she wished she had it with her. As always, she'd forgotten how afraid she was of her uncle-no, her father-in his absence. She was amazed-though she felt she shouldn't have been, that she ought to have known and remembered from the first-to find that she still did not- _could_ not-trust him. She felt Pantalaimon being a coward again, beginning to tremble, and knew it was because of Stelmaria's presence in the cabin.


	20. Alethiometer Answers

After Farder Coram talked to Gael, John Faa arranged a meeting with the Gyptian nobles and families chiefs over whatever it was that had been found out. It was a very exclusive meeting, and Lyra was a bit upset when she found out it did not include herself or Lucy.

A fine mess they'll all be in if they end up needing someone who can read an alethiometer during that meeting! Lyra thought; and spoke aloud to Pan.

"They could always have you or Lucy ask the alethiometer questions discussed in the meeting later," Pantalaimon pointed out meekly, still too unnerved by Stelmaria's presence to let any irritation he may have felt at being left out shine through as it did in his human. "They might not need us in the meeting itself."

"Oh hush up, Pan," huffed Lyra, irritably, disappointed that even her own dæmon would not sympathize with her.

Pantalaimon, draped across her shoulders, lifted up his head and nuzzled one of her ears in a comforting manner.

Lucy, on the other hand, had to pretend to be disappointed for her half sister's sake, but she was really too glad not to be needed at the meeting; Edmund wasn't called in, either, so that meant they could talk and catch up.

She did ask him what he'd found out about Gael when Farder Coram spoke with her, but he shrugged his shoulders and said he couldn't understand most of it and had largely been there for moral support anyway.

"If there's anything really important, Lu," said Edmund, sitting on the wooden deck's floor beside her, "I'm sure Farder Coram will tell us when he-and the others-are ready. But, Lucy, Peter told me you asked the alethiometer about Gael; what did it say?"

Lucy looked discomfited for a moment. "She's at least one quarter Gyptian, Ed; Rhince is her father."

"What?" Edmund's brow crinkled in confusion. "That's…"

"The alethiometer always tells the truth," Lucy reminded him. She knew it couldn't lie, and she felt positive that she had indeed read it correctly. Instinct was powerful when it came to truth measures; as long as the question was asked correctly, in the right frame of mind, she had no reason to doubt the answer.

"Why didn't he _say_ something?" Edmund shook his head disappointedly; Ella ruffled her feathers and snapped her beak. "He was with us on Caspian's ship…he didn't even really speak to her…"

"He didn't know," Lucy explained. "He still doesn't. I told John Faa and Peter-oh, and Lyra, because she would have found out by reading her alethiometer anyway-but I didn't _announce_ it." She looked at Reepicheep, then at Edmund, then back at Reepicheep again. Her conscience pricked at her. "Oh, I _should_ tell him."

"Of course you should," replied her dæmon.

But Ella seemed to think differently, "Oh no, really, think how you would feel if someone told you a thing like that!"

"Ella," said her human, disagreeing, "if Rhince slept with some strange land-woman, knowing the opinion most people have of Gyptians anyway, maybe he shouldn't be surprised…"

"She was his wife," Lucy corrected quietly, mumbling to her feet.

"What?" This was news. Since when did Rhince have a wife? Did Caspian and Drinian know anything about this?

"The alethiometer said Gael's mother was his wife…it didn't say anything else…only that…that something was keeping them from being together but they got married anyway…then he went away, worked as a Gyptian manservant for the higher ranking persons of his race...came back to sea. The needle stopped moving after that…I think the alethiometer didn't like me asking it the same question twice in a row, or else I was getting a little tired."

"I see." Edmund didn't know what else to say regarding that. "But maybe Ella's right, perhaps you shouldn't tell him right away."

"Why not?" Lucy looked annoyed and there was a slight scowl forming on Reepicheep's face. "Why shouldn't he know? Oughtn't he to be told?"

"Well, do you remember how you felt when you learned that Lord Asriel was your father?"

Other than disgusted and horrified? Lucy thought with shocking bitterness, immediately stunned at her own self, angrily brushing those harsh thoughts out of her mind for the time being. "I was angry that he hadn't told me, I was glad the Gyptians did."

"No, you weren't." Edmund knew her better than that. "Lucy, if he'd been the one to tell you maybe you wouldn't have been as cross in the end, but finding out from the Gyptians that he was your father completely threw you, and you know it."

"Think about Lyra, Ed," Lucy admonished, trying to keep her voice level. "Think about how she grew up believing Lord Asriel was her uncle and that her parents were both dead. If Gael ever realizes-or learns-that she was on the same ship with her father as a child and no one told him-or her-about it…Do you really want that for her?"

Edmund sighed, feeling torn. "I don't know."

"What about _your_ father?" she blurted out before considering the fact that they'd very, very rarely talked about Edmund Coulter the first, and almost never calmly. "What about how your mother never told you one nice thing about him? If you'd had a chance…before he…" Her voice trailed off; she noticed that he had bitten onto his lower lip and closed his eyes.

Reepicheep climbed into his lap, the taboo not mattering for them under these sorts of circumstances, and Lucy patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're right, of course you should tell him." But his voice sounded very distant, and she knew he was still thinking about his parents.

"I have something for you," Lucy told him to change the subject, taking out the alethiometer she had been keeping protected and safe for his return.

He took it from her and smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Lucy was glad to be giving him the alethiometer back, but… "Oh, and I'm sorry I couldn't find the book. They must have taken it."

"They did," Edmund confirmed. He winked at her. "That's fine, though, I pinched another one from Svalbard."

"Ed!" She tried to look serious, yet she failed to keep the admiration out of the adoring expression on her face, and he was all too aware that she was impressed.

"Edmund! Lucy!" Peter came rushing towards them, accidentally startling their dæmons and making them jump. Ella dropped three feathers and Reepicheep spun around with his little sword drawn defensively.

"Steady, Reep," Lucy whisper-hissed at her dæmon when she saw that it was only Peter, nothing to be alarmed about. Living around people who all had dæmons seemed to have dulled Reepicheep's ability of detecting a dæmonless person's presence before they standing right next to him.

Edmund gave him a hard look that asked if giving him a fright through Ella had been entirely necessary.

"Sorry," he apologized. Nodding at Reepicheep, he added, "Both of you."

"What's happening?" asked Lucy; Reepicheep lowered his sword back into its tiny scabbard, calming down.

"I came over here to tell you that Farder Coram and John Faa have finished their meeting with the others; they want to call a roping to have other Gyptians-ones that aren't here now-rallied together."

"But why?" she wondered aloud.

"I think they mean to have a raid on the slave traders," Peter explained, "and, if possible, to take alive anyone that might be working for Bolvangar."

"If their headquarters even _is_ still Bolvangar," said Edmund, a bit despairingly. "They might have set up operations someplace else."

"Oh, I don't know, Ed," mulled Peter thoughtfully. "It's far north, remote, untouched since that battle; they could have re-built it without anyone really taking much notice."

"You have to admit Lucy made a good point before, though, Pete," Edmund argued. "The equipment; she blew it up."

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "You would know better than I if they could get materials to make new equipment from scratch."

"Hypothetically," sighed Edmund, not without a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "it's not impossible…I just don't see…" His voiced trailed off because he didn't know how to explain.

How would he explain that he'd seen more of the Bolvangar research even than Susan had, that his mother had told him so many things…both truth and lies…that he wasn't even sure, for those wicked persons, what was possible and what wasn't? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. All he knew was that he had to stop them. For every child that had ever been torn from his or her dæmon; for Lucy, who believed in him; for Aslan; for children currently threatened, like Gael; for any children who might be threatened in the future; yes, he had to do something, he had to fight. But his resolve didn't eliminate his fear. He wasn't a coward, but after being deported to Svalbard, he knew all too well what the Ruling Powers did to anyone who acted against them. Most of all, he was fearful of being taken away from Lucy again. He'd just gotten back in her presence again and the world, horrific as it still was, felt _right_ somehow, all the same. The notion of being taken away from her and thrown back into some stinking prison was too awful to even _think_ about for too long.

That night, alone in the cabin he was sharing with Peter (who, unable to sleep, had gone up on deck for a breath of fresh air), Edmund tossed and turned; Ella shifted uncomfortably from claw to claw, her feathers all on end.

Sighing, Edmund gave up trying to get to sleep altogether, willing his mind, if it wouldn't let him rest, to at least not keep making him think about the Gyptian roping that would take place in less than two days. An army of Gyptians, Peter, and Lord Asriel with a whip and sword, against a bunch of slave traders; trying to kill some, and preserve others alive in case they were working at Bolvangar. Edmund thought this highly unlikely, by the way, that any of the slave traders would know much about Bolvangar. It seemed to him much more probable that some of the _customers_ would be the ones trying to re-create his mother's dirty work. He hadn't voiced this opinion yet, but he resolved to do so-probably to John Faa-at some point in time before the roping officially began.

He was desperate to think of something-anything-else. Climbing out of his cot, he took out the alethiometer Lucy had returned to him and the book he'd smuggled out of Svalbard. There was something he wanted to know; something about the ice bears.

Iorek had been upset to hear about the bears back at Svalbard becoming humanized, but he hadn't said why he wasn't living with them. Of course Iorek had to be an exile, Edmund was smart enough to figure that much out, yet that didn't tell him what his _panserbjørne_ friend had done to get himself booted out. At least, he thought, it was something different and completely unrelated to his own current worries to obsess over.

As he couldn't read the alethiometer by instinct as Lucy and Lyra could, he would need the book, his former knowledge gained from intense studies which he hoped had not become rusty during his time locked up as a prisoner of the Ruling Powers, and to light an oil lantern to see by.

Spreading his materials out on the only table in the cabin, he fumbled around for a spare match, cursed under his breath when he grabbed something sharp by accident first, then finally getting a hold of what he wanted, struck the match, opened the lantern, and lit it.

"There." He didn't sit, instead he leaned with his hands on the table's edge, peering down in the rich but murky, almost orange, light glinting off of and out through the lantern's glass sides.

Ella was perched a little ways off, her claws still curled around the long, thin, black iron bar that ran along the low ceiling-panel above her master's cot, her pale eye-lids lowered half-way.

Edmund opened the book to the page he wanted, read something, nodded, then picked up the alethiometer, holding it between the palms of his hands.

The instrument was heavier than he remembered, and he opened it slowly, gazing into its crystal face. Once had gotten his question framed, he watched the needle swing round and tried to make his mind stay level on the question he was asking it. This was very hard to accomplish while trying to-at the same time-read and decipher the symbols and letters that were pointed to. But he kept at it and after a bit he began to understand.

"What's it telling you?" Ella's eyes opened all the way, sensing her human had had a breakthrough with the alethiometer at last.

Edmund's brow was tightly furrowed. "It's telling me about Iorek…and his family…before, back when he lived in Svalbard."

Something…male bear…something female bear…something rash actions…fight…no, death-blow, then fight. Wait a second, why would there be a death-blow _before_ a fight? That didn't make sense. No, yes it did; the death-blow was the _cause_ of the fight.

But the bear it was telling him about wasn't Iorek-or, at least, it wasn't using the same symbol it had used when referring to Iorek Byrnison mere seconds before…it had to be another bear. Only, Edmund hadn't asked about another bear, he'd asked about Iorek.

Perhaps, he thought, the other bear's story is the reason Iorek is not in Svalbard anymore?

Was he falsely accused? But, then, that was before the armoured bears started acting like humans, and that meant they couldn't be tricked. Still, maybe they could have been bribed or angered into it; the _panserbjørne_ did seem to have an inflated sense of dignity, honour, and self-pride.

"Concentrate, concentrate," Edmund murmured to himself. He could read it, he knew he could, it just wasn't easy-wasn't natural. He'd get it in a moment.

Why did it keep stopping at the symbol that seemed to mean the other bear? What did that have to do with Iorek? Single Combat. Lost. Away. Never come back. Not welcome. Fire-hurlers; burning threat. Armour gone. Armour returned. Susan Pevensie.

He paused when he realized the alethiometer was telling him about his own sister. What did she have to do with anything he'd been asking the alethiometer?

Iorek knows where armour is. Goes to get it. Breaks church.

Oh, so that was it! Edmund thought he got it now; it was telling him about how Susan told Iorek where to find his armour after it was taken away and he was forced to work as metal-shop laborer in Norroway.

The needle was swinging round again. Apparently the alethiometer was starting from the beginning. It was back to the bit about what Edmund could only interpret as 'death-blow' but could not make any sense of. In the end, he had to let that go, he wasn't getting anywhere with it, and he had already dropped the questions. If he'd been reading it by instinct and not knowledge, he would have had to give up. Even as it was, he struggled.

Then, he read it again, for the fifth time at least. And he understood.

Recoiling, he glanced over at Ella and winced. Poor Iorek.

"He was a prince in Svalbard," Edmund said sadly, "the heir to the throne." He closed the book and the alethiometer, putting them away while he spoke; his eyes were starting to hurt, he wasn't going to read either of them anymore tonight. "Something happened, I can't understand that part, but I think it's to do with the old king. Someone killed him."

Ella whistled. "So shouldn't Iorek be king, then?"

"That's just it," he went on, "as far as I could understand from the alethiometer, he was challenged for some reason…by another bear, possibly a cousin, I think he's the king of Svalbard now; King Ragnar Sturlusson."

"Challenged?"

"To a one-on-one combat," said Edmund. "Iorek lost."

The idea of Iorek losing seemed absurd, really; strong, powerful Iorek losing a fight, indeed! And Edmund had seen how he could fight; fencing with him was something he would never forget. There it was, though. Iorek had lost, lost and been sent away in shame.

"What I don't get," said Ella, twisting her beak, "is why he was sent away. He lost his throne because Ragnar won…but why shouldn't Iorek get to live in Svalbard afterwards still?"

"I didn't understand it, either," Edmund confessed. "Not really. But, it's like Lucy said, the alethiometer doesn't lie, it tells the truth. We both know that better than most."

"Of course we do." His dæmon sighed. "All the same…Are you sure you read it right, Edmund?"

"Mostly, yes. Except for the parts I told you I didn't understand."

"Why do you think Iorek never talks about it?"

"He's embarrassed probably, anyone would be."

"I don't know; I think it goes deeper than that."

"It probably does," Edmund agreed.

The cabin door creaked open and Peter walked in, back from his stroll on the deck, ready to crawl into his cot and go to sleep.

He blinked in the lantern light, took in Edmund and his serious expression, and said, "I didn't know you were still awake. What are you doing up?"

"Nothing." Edmund decided not to tell him about Iorek's having been the crown prince of Svalbard, or that he had been straining himself over the alethiometer when he was supposed to be sleeping. Certainly it wouldn't have been considered odd behavior for an _alethiometrist_ of all people, and he knew Peter would have been understanding, but for the time being he felt he didn't want to talk about it any further.

"Then why do you have a lantern lit?" Peter didn't say it accusingly, or even as if he were anxious. He spoke absently, sleepily, all the while eyeing his cot and edging towards it.

Edmund smirked, opened the lantern, and blew out the flame in one quick breath. "What lantern lit?"

He couldn't see his brother-in-law in the dark, but Edmund felt it was safe to assume Peter was rolling his eyes. "Very funny, Ed. Good night."

"Night, Pete."


	21. Preparing for the Raid

"It's not fair," whined the fair-headed cabin boy, pouting in a very childish manner considering he was trying to seem more grown up, not less. "Lyra Silvertongue gets to run with the spear carriers; even Lucy Pevensie is going to be shooting with the archers." His dæmon was a wolf a little bit like Susan's Maugrim, only her fur was closer to black than it was to gray.

"His lordship's daughters," said Trumpkin gruffly, gesturing at Lord Asriel and Stelmaria with a quick twist of his red-bearded chin, "will do as they please." The dwarf grunted and slipped some arrows into a quiver, swinging his bow over his shoulder; he was going to be with the archers as well. "You, young man, are not going to fight."

"I'm going to ask the king, if I've got to." The cabin boy pursed his lips defiantly. "So there."

"Don't you even _think_ about botherin' Lord Faa," Ma Costa, who was standing near-by and had over-heard the conversation, told him. "He's got enough to worry about."

"Yous a cabin boy come with the extra Gyptians just turned up for the roping and the raid," added Billy, coming up behind his mother, "not a warrior."

That was the wrong thing to say. Insulted, the cabin boy growled, "I'll knock you down."

Billy Costa did not find this threatening in the least. Corin had a lot of spunk, certainly more than his somewhat timid twin brother, but Lyra probably could have taken him in a fight; he wasn't quite as good a boxer as he thought himself to be.

"Heh," he laughed, "I'd a like to see you try it!"

Unfortunately, Billy had somewhat underestimated Corin's 'spunk' and found himself knocked unceremoniously and indecorously to the deck floor. Then there was a fist connecting with his jaw, and Corin was more or less directly on top of him. Ratter squeaked and Corin's wolf snatched her up in her tough jaw, careful not to actually bite, yet still coming fairly close to it, and shook the poor rat-dæmon from side to side like a cat-toy.

The noise drew Lyra and Lucy; they came running over, clutching their dæmons to their breasts, trying to see what on earth was happening.

By the time they got to the scene of the fight, however, there wasn't much left to see aside from Ma Costa with her strong, weather-beaten, brownish-olive hands pulling the boys apart and cursing at them heartily, boxing their ears with an efficiency only a disappointed Gyptian mother can manage.

"Billy, you alright?" Lyra asked, noticing that her sometimes play-enemy, sometimes companion had a swollen jaw and reddened cheek.

Back at Jordan, in those old days when they'd had their 'wars', such a thing wouldn't have fazed her. But, then, she probably would have been the one who had inflicted any such wounds on him in the first place; hurling damp clay and mud-balls laced with rocks at his face without a care in the world.

"Course." He wouldn't give Corin the satisfaction of admitting it hurt. Nor Lyra the pleasure of seeing him wince in semi-defeat.

Lucy noticed the cabin boy, Corin, and blinked at him; he looked familiar. "Don't I know you? It was you that came to warn us when Rabadash was in pursuit of Susan, wasn't it?"

"No," said Corin, his determination to fight in the raid against the slave traders momentarily forgotten, thanks to Ma Costa's glare and Lucy's question on a whole different subject. "You're thinking of my twin brother, Shasta."

Lucy's eyes widened as it came back to her. "Oh, that's right, dear old Shasta." She remembered now. Shasta _had_ said that he had a twin that worked as a cabin boy for a Gyptian family, she recalled. She felt a little bad for getting them mixed up, but Corin did not seem offended at any rate.

"Lucy, there you are! I wanted to talk to you." Peter came up to them, sliding a sword John Faa had loaned him into a black leather scabbard and strapping the scabbard to a belt wrapped around his dull purple tunic worn over a shirt of chain-mail. "Look, I'm not sure how I feel about you being an archer during the raid."

"Peter," she said, not without a hint of exasperation towards her over-protective elder brother, "we talked about this already. You promised…"

"I want you to be safe, Lu." The expression on his face was too desperate and anxious for her to feel frustrated with him for very long.

"I will be," she said cheerfully, grinning over at Billy Costa; he was going to an archer, too. "Billy will take good care of me. And Edmund won't be far off, I'm sure. Neither will you."

Here, Corin jumped in with, "You know, I could help look after her, too." He paused, trying to look innocent and full of pure goodness. "If I could have your leave to fight in the raid as well."

"Don't fall for it," Trumpkin warned him, shooting Corin the stink eye. "He's a good lad, and he'll be as true as steel to Lucy if he gives you his word that he will, but the he's altogether too eager to be part of the fight. Don't let him."

"I'm sorry." Peter patted Corin's shoulder in an awkward, apologetic way. "No."

"Barrels and Barnacles! I don't know what he was thinking," Trumpkin grumbled as Corin and his dæmon stalked off to sulk someplace else. "If Billy had been hurt, the first result of those foolish thunder-fists of his would not be to help us, but to lose us one fighter."

"Billy shouldn't have provoked him," Ma Costa said sternly, giving her son a sharp look.

"Sorry, Ma." He hung his head in shame, not caring just then what Lyra thought of him becoming all soft and subjective to his mother. Besides, Lyra was the same way around Ma Costa most of the time; she even used to be down-right _afraid_ of her for at least a year after she realized the Gyptian woman was perfectly aware of the identity of the little college-bred, ragamuffin girl who'd tried to take a joy-ride on her boat.

Ma Costa nodded forgivingly at her son and told him to check on Tony who was supposed to be in charge of any food-rations they would need to take along in case of an emergency.

Lyra picked up the biggest, sharpest spear within reach before Peter hastily took it away from her and gave her a shorter one, warning her she was going to poke somebody's eye out with that thing if she didn't get one more befitting to her own shape and size, and also take into account the proper way to hold it. Ma Costa ordered her to obey and listen to him, but Lyra, always having admired Peter, would probably have done so anyway, despite her usual rebellious nature.

"Come, Reep," Lucy said to her dæmon, walking over to the other side of the deck. She hoped Peter would have forgotten his apprehension regarding her fighting in the raid by the time they ran into each other again; or, at least, that he would be too busy to comment on it.

They passed by Farder Coram sitting in a high-backed wooden chair on the port side of the front deck, looking out at the horizon. His tabby-dæmon sat on his lap, and he was lightly scratching absently at her beautiful ears which looked almost golden due to the way the sun was hitting them. Gael was sitting on the deck floor beside his chair with her legs tucked under her; Pattertwig was in the form of a seagull (similar to Caspian's, Lucy noticed).

It seemed like Gael was pulling away a little bit from Edmund; or, rather, she seemed to have forgotten about him for the time being in favor of following Farder Coram around and chattering at him, using a thousand and one words per minute. Probably this was because no matter what tongue or dialect she spoke in, Farder Coram automatically understood. Sometimes he got a little confused because she talked too quickly, but never because he couldn't comprehend the words she used in themselves.

"Are you going to fight, too, Farder Coram?" Gael asked, Pattertwig soaring round in a circle a foot or so away then coming back to land on her right shoulder.

Farder Coram smiled. "Oh no, Gael, not me, I'm too old. I can't do much fightin' anymore, really. It's up to younger men." He remembered his last battle; the one at Bolvangar, he'd been too old then, too, and if his beloved Serafina had not saved his life, he realized he wouldn't be talking to Gael now. It was wise for a man to accept his limitations when push came to shove. Lord John Faa, he was still strong, both of his legs worked fine, he could still fight; as could many others.

"Younger?" Gael asked curiously. "Like Edmund?" Apparently she did remember him after all.

"Yes, like Edmund," the old crippled Gyptian replied; "and Caspian, Billy Costa, and Rhince." Not knowing-as John Faa hadn't told him-that Rhince was Gael's father, he didn't hesitate or feel at all awkward saying his name to her.

"Rhince," Gael repeated, furrowing her little dark eyebrows. "He's the one standing over there talking to Caspian right now, the one with the meerkat dæmon, right?"

Rhince looked over his shoulder at her and smiled.

"He's sad," said Gael to Farder Coram, not returning the smile. "His smile is sad, too."

"I suppose he would be a worried in regards to returning to Narrowhaven."

"Is he scared to fight?" Gael wanted to know.

"Rhince?" Farder Coram laughed. "Good Lord, I wouldn't think it of him. Not him. He don't like Narrowhaven; that's all."

That _wasn't_ all, though. Disliking Narrowhaven was part of the reason Rhince had new worry-lines etched on his face, between the eyebrows and above the bridge of his nose; but it wasn't the cause of his sadness. Lucy had told him, less than a day ago, who Gael really was.

Upon learning the truth, realizing he had a daughter when he hadn't even known that much to begin with, there was little he wanted to do more than race over to the child and sweep her up into his arms, embracing her tightly. But he wasn't so sure he could. This was no wandering baby; she was only a little girl, but she was old enough to know what a father was. And how was he to tell her that she was his daughter? That now that he thought about it, looking at her with different eyes, eyes of knowledge and love, she resembled him-and her mother-a great deal.

He wasn't even sure how to approach her to begin with. Gael had her favorite people, those she spent her waking hours with, mostly Edmund and Farder Coram, give or take a few others here and there, and he wasn't amongst them. So, until he could come up with something better, he settled for smiling over at her when she happened to glance in his direction-however briefly.

Sighing, his smile became a wince of repressed emotional pain, and he went back to speaking with Caspian, working on making plans for the raid.

Edmund, two pieces of slightly tarnished armour slung over one arm and a helmet under the other, walked by.

Gael noticed him and waved, lest he think she was ignoring him.

He didn't think that at all. Actually, he was sort of glad she was attached to Farder Coram; she was a sweet girl and Edmund had grown quite fond of her, but she was also a mite too clingy, and there was such a thing as spending too much time together. He waved back and she reassumed her conversation with Farder Coram.

"What's up, Lu?" Edmund greeted her, noticing Lucy coming towards him.

"Peter's having second thoughts about letting me fight with the archers in the raid," she told him.

"What? Again?" He tried not to laugh; Ella was nearly shaking on his shoulder with his repressed amusement towards the matter. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

Lucy looked relieved. "Would you?"

"Of course." He loved Lucy dearly and was as desperate as Peter to keep her safe, but he couldn't see too much harm in letting her be an archer, especially when she was so set on it and would have plenty of protection. Gyptians were more than skilled at protecting those they cared about; and she would be surrounded by loving Gyptians for the whole duration of the raid.

"Thanks, Ed."

"You're welcome."

He looked both ways and saw that no one was watching them.

Gael was still prattling on and on to Farder Coram, Caspian and Rhince were whispering and had their backs to them, and any other Gyptians that happened to be near by at that moment were busy with various tasks.

Half-grinning, he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.

As they pulled apart, Lucy whispered, "What was that for?"

"Oh, no reason," he said, his half-grin a full one now. "I've got to bring this armour to the cabin boys for cleaning, then I'm going to talk to Peter for you like I promised. See you later."

Lucy sighed and stood beaming for a few moments until Lord Asriel came by and broke the mood completely, asking what the devil she was so happy about, and didn't she realize they were planning a dangerous raid?


	22. The Raid and What Came of it

Although Gael did not do any actual fighting in the raid against the slave traders in Narrowhaven (and thank heavens, she was, after all, only a little girl) she did play a major part. For it was she who had unwittingly told Farder Coram what he needed to let John Faa know. The child, having been badly frightened by those horrid kidnappers hadn't known she was saying anything useful, she was simply blurting out her whole traumatized story. But it was this story that gave them clues as to which alleys and lanes and locations of Narrowhaven the slave trade was currently based in; that coupled with a few other spy sources (Gyptians were never short on spies of their own race-such things were heavily embedded within their blood and culture, it seemed) and the map Rhince had given to Emeth and the others before-hand, led them all right to where they needed to be.

The raid was soon in full swing. Upon realizing the area was under attack, many of the slaves panicked and hid, or else tried to make a run for it, but a few of them-the braver, tougher ones-began to fight, too. They caught on rather quickly that if these strange Gyptians won, they might be released from slavery. A few of them were afraid that the Gyptians would then take them and that it things would be no better for them in the end than it would have been if they'd been sold, but feeling as if they had to do _something_ , finally decided that they'd cross that bridge when they got to it. They might make pleas, they thought. They could perhaps come to an agreement of some kind, a bargain. And besides, it was easier to get the government involved when it was a Gyptian that kidnapped a person than otherwise.

For all their being caught unawares, however, the slave-traders (and even some of the more brutish and less respectable-looking customers) fought back hard. It wasn't long at all before John Faa had to signal the archers to begin shooting their arrows in earnest. He hadn't wanted to-not so quickly, what with all those women and children around. But some of the Gyptians not currently engaged in direct combat were working hard to shield the women and children and those of the enslaved men who were both too old to fight and too weary to run off. As long as the archers were not careless and there were no real accidents, things might be fine in the end. There did not seem to be any other way around it.

More arrows than John Faa had counted on there being appeared, falling from the sky in ever increasing amounts, and for one horrible moment he-and a few of his men as well-thought that the slavers had some sort of re-enforcements backing them up, trying to out-do their own archers. Only, if this was the case, they couldn't be very skilled. All of the arrows seemed to strike only the slavers and those fighting on their side. There was no logical reason why this would be so unless whatever this unseen source was was helping _them_ , not their enemy.

Looking up after he managed to block a blow from one of the slavers with his sword, Peter was among the first to see these archers. They rode upon cloud-pine branches.

"Witches!" exclaimed a young female belonging to their own archers (it turned out to be Lucy).

Lyra, running in the dead-centre of the spear-carriers, holding her spear directly out in front of her, looked up and saw that this was indeed the case.

Witches were flying above them, swarming and swooping down into the battle.

I wonder, thought John Faa, if one of these is Farder Coram's wife, Serafina Pekkala.

Also, he found himself wondering how they had all come to his aid so suddenly, so readily, knowing exactly where they were needed.

Looking to his left, Lord Faa saw a silver-white falcon letting out a screechy whistle. His crow-dæmon sensed that this stunning falcon, watching the fight from his perch on a wooden crate propped against a partially broken fence, was not an ordinary bird but rather someone's dæmon; and so he put two and two together with what Farder Coram had told him and gathered that she belonged to the Star Consul. It was she, it seemed, that had helped lead the witches here. They had their own ways of knowing, but they'd needed some assistance to get there quickly enough. And, thankfully, they had gotten just that.

The man Peter was fighting suddenly tricked him, swinging his sword so that he thought the slaver was trying to slash at his legs when really he was using it as a sort of trip-wire to knock him down onto his back.

It would be easier to dispatch this unwanted fighter, obviously on the side of the Gyptians though he wasn't one himself, if he were lying flat on the ground, sore, and unable to move for a couple of seconds.

Sure enough, unsuspecting, Peter found himself on his back, looking up at the slaver who raised his sword to finish him off.

There were still arrows falling from the sky; if he was very lucky, maybe one would hit his opponent before the sword came plummeting down into his chest. He couldn't depend on that happening by chance entirely, however, so he did the only thing he could have reasonably done, dangerous though it was. He began rolling towards where the most arrows were raining from, under the somewhat-flimsy defense that the slaver's back would serve as something of a human shield for him. If the man really was stupid enough to swoop down with all those arrows flying, just to kill him, then he certainly deserved what was coming to him in that case.

But supposing one of the witches' arrows hit him-Peter-by mistake? Well, he would have to risk that.

And he did.

Ignoring the pain in his one of his wrists, small pieces of pebble having dug into it, causing a sharp, stinging sort of pain, he kept twisting his body to the side.

It came to a point when he couldn't turn anymore. Peter could simply not budge a single inch more. It wasn't soreness that was stopping him, he realized after a second of confusion, it was that one of his sides was now pressed against the back of a wide stage made of pine-wood scraps and cheap crate-lids (this was where the men managing the slave-bidding had been standing before the Gyptians fell upon them so suddenly). There was no where else to go. He couldn't stand up-there wasn't enough space. He couldn't turn either way, for the stage blocked one side while his opponent blocked the other.

He wondered for a passing split-second if his opponent had noticed that he didn't have a dæmon. Then again, the man might just assume his dæmon was somewhere amongst the sea of others clawing and fighting in whatever distance they could get from their masters and mistresses. Everything was confusion, and flashing, and bursting of golden Dust as death spread and dæmons dispersed into naught, and heat, and sticky sweat.

Not too far off, Lord Asriel was using his whip with as much force as he must have when he'd fought against this same slave trade years before. But Peter couldn't depend on a rescue from him or Stelmaria-who was currently roaring and swatting her powerful white paws at a German Shepard dæmon-as they were too busy and too far away. They'd never reach him in time; and all the others were further still from his spot. Most had cleverly kept out the way of the arrows, whereas Peter, having little choice, was deep in that direction, unable to leave it now.

Suddenly, without warning, a cloud-pine branch lowered itself. There appeared to be, not one witch, but two, riding on it; and one of them had a big doggish-looking dæmon with her. This 'dog' was a great deal too massive for the size of the branch in itself, though it could easily bear his weight all the same.

The dog dæmon-if it was a dog-was released from his mistress's tight grip on his fur, and he leaped off of the now low-hovering branch and pinned down the growling, medium-sized, gorilla dæmon belonging to the man about to run Peter through with his sword.

Then the smaller of the two witches, presumably the one who's dæmon was now tearing mercilessly at the gorilla, biting and gnawing as if there were no tomorrow, slid off of the branch so that she stood with her back to the slaver but was still directly between him and Peter.

The man let out an angry yell that did not contain any actual words, and it became clear that he was still trying to bring his sword down despite the pain he was feeling through his dæmon.

Peter was no longer even thinking about his opponent, or even the raid he was in the middle of, instead he gazed up into the 'witch's' face, an amazed smile coming onto his own. It wasn't a witch after all, and her dæmon was no dog-it was a wolf; Maugrim. This was Susan, dressed in elegant witch-garb and carrying a quiver of arrows on her back. The witch whose branch they'd gotten a ride on was none other than Serafina Pekkala.

The slaver lurched forward. Susan, who was ready for him, had a single arrow in her right hand. She thrust it backwards into his stomach and his dæmon went out like a light. Maugrim found himself standing in a pile of blood-drops and golden Dust. Hastily, he shook the mess out of his fur and took a deep breath.

"Susan!" Peter exclaimed, overjoyed.

"Come on," she said as he finally managed to scramble to his feet with a little help from Maugrim's nose. "We've got a raid to finish."

To reassure himself that he was not simply hallucinating, that Susan really was there, fighting beside him, Peter peered over the side of his shoulder at her whenever he felt it was safe to risk it. Or else maybe he was so thrilled to be near his wife again that he couldn't stop looking at her. In all likelihood, it was both.

Overhead, one witch lost her balance when the servant of a customer of the slave-trade hurled a spear at her while she was busy shooting arrows down upon about six or seven men trying to corner John Faa and Lord Asriel against the back of a wall.

The witch teetered, struggling to get a better grasp of her cloud-pine branch; but she couldn't manage it and she fell. She was the only witch to fall in the raid. It was, after all, comparatively on a very small scale when thought of alongside the much larger battles these same witches had taken part in. Truly, it was rather shocking that any of them fell to begin with, even so much as one.

Thankfully the fall was not anything _close_ to fatal. And no sooner had she taken her rough tumble than Serafina Pekkala and another witch charged at the servant so that no one ever heard anything from him again.

However, the spear carriers (including Lyra) and two swordsmen (one of which happened to be Edmund) were clever enough to discern that the dead servant had not acted without orders; he had to have gotten direction and command from someone else.

Despite the wildness and savage brutality all around them, pressing in close, they were also able to determine that the customer who was the dead servant's master was the dark-faced nobleman dressed in extravagantly bright silken robes worn over his paper-thin white doublet underneath with a small, thoroughly unattractive, dæmon riding on his left shoulder.

Lyra's spear nearly pierced the nobleman's side, but he turned round to face her before she could make contact properly and his dæmon's hideous eyes flashed angrily at Pantalaimon who was snarling and grimacing at the same time, upon realizing the dæmon's wrenched form was nothing more than a scorpion.

No harm came to Lyra and Pan, though. Edmund's sword clanged against the nobleman's before he could even think about threatening the Silvertongue girl and her pine marten with it.

As he fought the man, who proved skilled at swordplay yet undoubtedly prissy in regards to it at the same time, Edmund sensed that something was seriously wrong; Ella was making this horrified sound with her throat and trying to swoop near the nobleman's shoulder so as to get at the scorpion with her beak, even when it wasn't exactly necessary to her human's victory.

This was very odd, and Edmund kept wondering what it was his dæmon was trying to warn him of and trying to destroy. It was mere seconds after his Eleanor Glimfeather had taken another-ultimately fruitless-dive at the scorpion that Edmund's eyes met those of the nobleman's.

They had known each other once a very long while back and their hatred had only been masked by a thin veil of courtesy as this horrid man had been betrothed to his sister at the time.

"Lord Rabadash," he muttered, mostly to himself, through gritted teeth.

"Well, well, well." Lord Rabadash recognized him now. "If it isn't my brother-in-law."

Edmund wielded his sword as if he intended to hack Lord Rabadash's head off right then and there.

Their swords met again.

Lord Rabadash was a stupid, lustful, spoiled, arrogant, moronic ass, but he had been trained well enough in swordsmanship to know not to willingly let someone's sword that close to your head without fighting back.

"I am _not_ your brother-in-law."

"Not yet."

"It was years ago," said Edmund, pushing in the steel of the sword so that if they went on for much longer with the way they were fighting it was going to be more of a wrestle with sharp steel held out in front of them as their only defenses. "Get over it already. My sister never loved you, and she's happily married to someone else."

"Not legally, I've heard," sneered Rabadash. "Hardly surprising; that daughter of a dog always was a most dreadful slut."

"You son of a-" Edmund's dark eyes glinted at him with unrepressed out-rage so passionate and defensive that any man with a lick of sense would have felt a shiver of fear at it; a person with an expression like that on their face might do anything-absolutely anything!

"Ah-ah-ah," Rabadash cut him off. "I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you." He never had had any sense to begin with.

The near-wrestling match was over and they were back to proper (while obviously more vengeful than average) broadsword fighting.

"If you were me," said Edmund over the clinking of their swords, "I would be such a despicable idiot."

"Shut up, criminal." Apparently Lord Rabadash was aware that Edmund was a wanted man now. Whether he knew he was an alethiometrist, or if he even knew anything at all about alethiometrists to begin with was uncertain and a bit doubtful, but he knew from hear-say that Edmund was not welcome in a great number of places these days. It was common knowledge that the boy who used to be a Coulter was now a traitor to the Ruling Powers.

"Why don't we let our swords do the talking here on in?" Edmund suggested, his teeth gritted again-and bared.

Before Rabadash could make any reply there was a surprisingly clear-sounding _twang_ , as if from reasonably near-by, and an arrow came flying towards the dark nobleman.

Edmund was clever enough to figure out something a panicked Rabadash wouldn't have taken note of. The arrow wasn't being shot at him; it was being shot at his dæmon. It was as if the archer had intended to shoot the little scorpion clean off his master's shoulder. This was not necessarily to kill him, although that wouldn't exactly have been a tragic outcome in the least, but to stun him long enough to give Edmund the advantage.

Glimpsing quickly over his shoulder, he thought it was Susan, but Ella told him his sister was fighting close-by her husband, not near to them at all. The only archer close enough to have shot the arrow and to be the girl he'd seen was Lucy Pevensie. That made sense, since he'd thought there was a boy a little ways behind her; probably Billy Costa.

Looking back at Rabadash, he laughed aloud. The nobleman had gotten the sleeve of his billowy silken robe pinned to the alley wall behind them by Lucy's arrow.

"You coward!" screeched Lord Rabadash. "Take this arrow off of my garments. Let me down at once. Fight me without cheating! Fight me like a man!"

"Certainly-" Edmund began, but was stopped by his dæmon.

"He's not worth it, Ed," whispered Ella. "Let's just leave him."

Ella was right. Lord Rabadash wasn't worthy of anything. This horrible man had pursued Susan and burned down Gyptian ships, and he had had every intent of killing Peter back at Jordan College for no other reason than the fact that Susan loved him and he was jealous of that. Now he could whine and thrash about all he wanted and Edmund would not help him down, would not give him another chance at a so-called fair fight.

Stay there for now, thought Edmund, with a cutting glance at Rabadash and his pathetic attempts to get himself loose (eventually he would think to remove the arrow itself, but by then Edmund would be fighting in some other part of the raid), take that as punishment for daring to speak of my sister in a vulgar manner.

Susan had joined the archers behind Lucy now and was fighting with Trumpkin on one side of her, Billy Costa on the other; Serafina Pekkala opposite to him. Rhince and Drinian had crossbows well-aimed.

Peter and most of the other swordsmen were still ready to fight, if the need had arisen, but by this point those they were fighting against were either dead or else surrendered for the majority. Disappointingly, however, none of them knew-or were willing to admit they knew-anything about Bolvangar, despite the threats of the archers and their never-ending arrows.

Lord John Faa did take one slaver into custody, yet this proved unhelpful as the captive somehow succeeded in committing suicide before he even made it to the Dawn Treader.

"See, Peter?" said Edmund when Peter stood at his side helping Rhince pile up the surrendered swords. "I told you Lucy would be fine."

Peter looked over to where Lucy stood with the other archers-some Gyptians, others witches-and sighed a sigh of deep relief. "I know she's all right-I knew all along she was safe enough-but I just had this knot in my stomach at the thought of…"

"I know." Edmund put a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder.

He knew it had to be hard for Peter, having looked after Lucy since she was a baby and now seeing her in combat. It was hard even for he himself, for no other reason than that he was in love with her and would rather die a thousand deaths than see a so much as a hair's breath of a wound on her. Still, he understood that Lucy was strong, maybe even in ways her elder brother couldn't yet accept; no defenseless, lily-livered girl would have worked so diligently and bravely as an alethiometrist's assistant. And there were moments when there was simply no stopping the wonder that was Lucy Pevensie from fighting for what she believed in. That was just that, no way around it.

"I say," said Peter suddenly, crinkling his brow and squinting at the archers. "Where's Susan?"

Edmund blinked at him. "I thought she was with you." He twisted his neck and exchanged a puzzled expression with Ella. Then, turning back to Peter, "Wasn't she fighting at your side since shortly after she turned up with the witches?"

"She was," Peter explained, "until she re-joined the archers as back-up. Didn't you see her?"

"No," said Edmund. "I saw Lucy…but not Susan, I don't think."

"Susan…she's the dark-haired one with the wolf dæmon, right?" asked Rhince, over-hearing.

"Yes," Peter told him.

"I saw her…I was fighting with a crossbow close by."

"When was the last time?" Edmund blurted out, beginning to get something of a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach without being sure why.

"Before…" said Rhince vaguely, struggling to recall. "She was talking to…Billy…no, Tony, I think."

"Billy and Tony are both with Lord John Faa," Peter noticed. "I can see them…Susan's not there."

"She's probably just talking to some of the witches," Rhince suggested, shrugging at his meerkat-dæmon who was silently communicating to him that Ella was uneasy and she wasn't sure why.

"Edmund!" Ella flapped her wings so wildly that she lost five feathers at once and nearly smacked her human in the face accidentally besides.

"What is it?" said Edmund, his voice strained.

"Look at the wall…"

"What wall?"

"The one Rabadash was stuck to!" she squawked impatiently.

Edmund looked; Rabadash was gone. It had only been one arrow, there was no reason Rabadash shouldn't have gotten free by now. But that he should be free, unaccounted for, at the very same moment that Peter could not find Susan…that made Edmund's face go whiter than Ella's fallen feathers. No heated blood from the battle was still within him, all he felt in his veins was ice.

"Rabadash?" repeated Peter, wondering if-and hoping-he'd heard Edmund's dæmon wrong. "Not the same Lord Rabadash who Susan was going to marry before she ran away to Jordan?"

"Peter," snapped Edmund, with pardonable sharpness, folding his arms across his chest, "exactly how many 'Rabadashs' have you ever heard of?"

"Oh, dear God…I have to find her…now…" Peter took off.

Edmund was right to worry. His instinct and his dæmon's fear at realizing Rabadash and Susan were both missing at the same time were more than mere over-protective twinges of worry.

While Peter had gone off to find her, Edmund hastily began asking everybody within range if anyone had captured Rabadash. This was wishful thinking…there was no doubt about it…his lordship was not a man to take surrender quietly, if someone had caught him they surely wound have heard his shrill whining peppered with unwarranted threats by now. But there were so many swords…maybe just one of the Gyptians…could have…no, there was no chance of that. The more Edmund looked around, the more he realized the only chance was that Peter would find Susan quickly enough. His one condolence was that nearly everyone was looking for her in earnest now-including the witches. If Rabadash had perhaps seen her and taken her somewhere without notice, so long as they were still anywhere within Narrowhaven boundaries, he could not possibly get very far.

"What if the officials get involved and take Lord Rabadash's part over the Gyptians?" Ella voiced one of Edmund's worst fears regarding the matter.

"They won't." But he didn't really believe that and Ella knew it. "They _won't_. Really."

Meanwhile, Susan had her back pressed against a tree in some dratted unknown park in Narrowhaven. All she knew for sure was that it wasn't far from where the raid had been. Rabadash, who'd always had servants to carry him about in a litter when his feet 'got weary' (heaven forbid he should sport a blister!) or to attend to his needs when he wasn't fighting in some quarrelsome bully-fest, couldn't run a great distance after all that energy zapped from him during the raid. And he had a stinging cut on one elbow as well.

"You _dare_ come near me," Susan warned the dark, leering nobleman, "and I swear you will regret it."

Maugrim growled at the scorpion. "And I'll kill you, don't think I won't."

She had been beyond horrified to feel a hand clamp over her mouth when she'd stepped away from the archers at what seemed to be the end of the raid to relieve herself. Susan strongly disliked the very idea of lifting her skirts and peeing out-of-doors; it was a vulgar, unladylike practice, and she knew her younger self would have been utterly disgusted if she'd known that one day she would have to even _consider_ such a thing. But, then, she sort of hated her younger self-that foolish, vain girl who had been afraid of her mother and unwilling to stand up for what she believed in and who she truly loved. Besides, the witches may have had special powers and talents, but the idea of asking one if it was possible to create some sort of witchy chamber pot was even more embarrassing than quietly sneaking away and crouching. Maugrim had vowed to keep look-out, anyway.

Unfortunately they hadn't realized there was safety in numbers. How were they supposed to have known that Rabadash was there-Edmund had had no chance to warn them. If she hadn't gone off, he wouldn't have even noticed her standing with the witches. Because of her dark hair and the clothing she had on, she looked-from a distance when standing amongst the archers-very much like the witches mingling with the Gyptians. The second she'd wandered off, however, he'd seen her and recognized her.

Then, from the one way Maugrim wasn't looking, directly behind them, Rabadash had snatched her.

Maugrim had been, from the very start, trying to grap up the scorpion in his mouth and shake him until his master was wrought with dizziness in the same way he had the night Susan had meant to leave him-and the world-and end it all, but unlike last time, Rabadash's dæmon knew what to expect and stung far more sharply than before. She crawled over Maugrim's shaggy fur and buried herself within it at the worst moments so that he could not tear her out without causing pain and injury to himself.

Now, pressed against the tree, Susan was caught between the urge to vomit and the urge to faint. She mustn't faint, for if she did he could just carry her off and would be at her the second she came back into consciousness. And vomiting didn't always come for the asking.

"You needn't resist so," cooed Rabadash, leaning forward and attempting to slip an arm around her waist as she struggled and pulled as far back as the tree would let her. "You'll need to learn a sharp lesson, O beautiful one, but you don't have to feel bad about it…you don't have to worry about that man you've been with…"

" _That man_ ," said Susan tersely, "is my husband." She reached up to smack him across the face, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted until she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming out in pain.

He dropped her throbbing wrist but continued leaning even more aggressively so that she couldn't get away. "You're more mine than his, you know."

"You are mad," Susan told him flatly. "Let me go at once!" She wished her weapons were not still all at the place she had tried to relieve herself at. An arrow or a knife at this moment would have been a God-send.

Maugrim was growling and barking, tearing his teeth at the spots the scorpion went right on stinging, not caring if he only caused himself more pain-he had to get rid of her, he _had_ to.

"Who do you think any sensible member of society is going to believe?" He smirked at her, his face so close to hers that she could feel and smell his breath, sharp with something like mint but stronger and less pleasant, each time he so much as exhaled. "Me, legally betrothed to you, or that unnatural dæmonless man who ought to be in a freak-show of some sort?"

"It was years ago!" Susan huffed, almost too angry now to feel as fearful as she had been a few moments before.

"So?" Rabadash's brow went up uncaringly. "I'll take you back, all is forgiven. You don't know how much I've missed you. I looked everywhere…I even went to Jordan to fetch you…what was it, two or three years ago, I believe."

"I don't want you," Susan insisted vehemently.

"That really doesn't matter."

"I'm married," she reminded him, lifting up her left hand. "You've lost." She swiveled her head round to look for a rock or a broken branch she could use to hit him with.

"Oh, I know all about that…and I know it wasn't legal..." He said these words in a sing-songy way, and she sensed his scorpion, still stinging poor Maugrim, was laughing.

"Stop it!" She let out a scream as one of his hands started roughly rubbing the side of her neck. She tried to kick him, but every bone in her body felt sore from Maugrim's pain and she felt she could barely lift her aching legs.

"Don't worry, O delight of my eyes," he whispered. "Soon we'll have you reintroduced to society as a proper woman again…we'll keep your harlotry a secret…" Then, softer still yet far more threateningly, and with a much more suggestive expression on his face, "For right now, though, I'll enjoy having you with a bit of a barbarian edge…might be… _interesting_ …"

"I'll give you interesting!" barked Maugrim, almost-but not quite-getting his teeth on that darned allusive scorpion.

"Interesting," repeated Rabadash. As he spoke, the word died off into an attempted kiss despite Susan's efforts to push him away.

"No!" She started weeping and shouting hysterically at the same time, losing her mind altogether as one of his hands started trying to force itself up the skirt of her dress. "No! No! Get off me!"

He did withdraw his hand, not in compliance with her wishes, rather, because he meant to cover her mouth. Her screams were already louder than he'd known any woman could scream, and would be such a pity to heard and interrupted.

Before his hand could clamp over her mouth as intended, a swift, strong pair of arms reached down from above, and someone up in the tree pulled her away from him, into the safety of the large, intertwined branches.

Susan didn't try to fight these arms; they were oddly familiar and meant her no harm.

When she actually saw him as he gently placed her as far in as he could manage, she almost started weeping all over again for sheer relief and joy; it was Peter.

"Shh, it's all right," he whispered, trying to console her. Maugrim was still down there, and he knew she was still in pain and that he would have to rescue the wolf or else pulling her up wouldn't have done any good, but he struggled to comfort her all the same.

She moaned softly, her eyes half-closing from her dæmon's suffering.

"Poor Susan," he said, preparing to leap down from the tree once he was certain she would not fall without his support; "it seems I'm making a habit of pulling you up into trees without warning."

Knowing it was a reference to how they'd met, Susan managed a half-smile.

"I'm going to take care of this," he promised her, his voice cracking with over-repressed emotion. "He's never going to come near you again-I'll make sure of it."

Suddenly it struck her that he wasn't just going to reach down and pull Maugrim up the way he had when she was thirteen and he'd rescued her from the Telmarine Gyptians she was fighting off.

"Peter," she tried, her voice faltering.

She didn't want him to get hurt. Her practical side was screaming out for him to forgo honour and all that rot so that they could just get away. He didn't have to be a hero; she didn't want an injured-or worse, dead-hero, she wanted to keep her living, breathing husband. No one would have thought any the less of him…but of course he wouldn't listen to her…he never did…

The next thing Rabadash knew, Peter had leapt down from the tree and was pointing a sword at his chest.

"Where did you come from?" Lord Rabadash demanded, sounding more sulky than he did angry.

"The _sky_ ," Maugrim grunted sarcastically, in between heavy, gasping breaths.

"You listen and you listen well," Peter growled, cutting straight to the chase. "If you ever try to put your hands on my wife again I will cut them off, understood?"

"Unholy freak of nature," spat Rabadash.

"Funny," said Peter, his facial muscles not budging so much as a half-inch, "I was about to say the same thing about _you_." He inhaled deeply. "Now, unless you want me to run you through, get your dirty rotten dæmon off of Maugrim this instant."

Rabadash had lost his own sword during the raid when he'd gotten pinned to the wall, but he still had a knife.

Disguising his smirk as a grimace, he said, "Fine, you win." The scorpion let go of Maugrim who, in turn, barreled over to Peter the same way a frightened, injured dog rushes to its owner at first sight and chance.

"Peter!" shouted Susan's voice as she dared to lean downwards through the branches to call out to him. "Watch out!"

Rabadash had raised his knife to stab him. The blade never came down onto Peter's back. Without warning, Rabadash's face drained and there was a puff of golden Dust where his scorpion had been. The now-dead lordship collapsed onto the ground. In the pile of unlit Dust that was once the scorpion, there was an arrow which Peter bent down to examine.

He knew who the arrow belonged to. "Lucy."

Sure enough, a trembling Lucy-holding a bow-and Reepicheep came into sight.

"We…we were trying to follow you, Peter," she admited, trying not to look at the dead body on the ground. "Reepicheep sensed Maugrim over here and then we saw…he was going to…I was only trying to stun his dæmon, he was just so small that…" She shuddered. "Ugh."

Reepicheep piped in, "Still, we've done the only thing we could do."

"Peter," said Susan, in a soft, reminiscent voice.

"Yes?"

"Aren't you going to help me down?"

Remembering, he softly said, "Yes, of course," and reached up, pulling her down gently into his arms.

"Thank you," she breathed weakly.


	23. More Aftermath of the Raid

That night everyone involved in the raid (with the exception of Caspian and two others who were staying behind in Narrowhaven as spies for a few days and so were spending their night at an inn that was known for its strict business, thus did not openly discriminate against men of Gyptian ethnicity so long as they paid well enough) slept on board all of the smaller ships they'd come in, headed once more back to the Dawn Treader.

Susan and Peter had a cabin to themselves. They might have gotten one anyway, but it was more than guaranteed when the Gyptians and witches found out what Susan had been through with Rabadash that afternoon. They all felt so sorry and frightened for her; some even felt a little ashamed that they had been unable to do anything to stop it or else that they hadn't noticed her being snatched away. (In regards to Lucy, when they found out she had had to kill the nobleman, though not intentionally, several Gyptian men whom most persons would have found alarming at best proved to be complete softies and hovered over her like a pack of mothers, demanding to know if she needed anything-anything at all.)

Maugrim had a large basket originally intended for heavy laundry loads but currently stuffed with cushions and put out as a place for the wolf-dæmon to curl up in while he licked at his wounds.

His mistress, meanwhile, sat on the bunk in her nightclothes and a dressing-gown, shivering slightly.

"Here." Peter sat down on the bunk beside her and gently placed a tin mug of hot tea into her hands. "Don't grasp it too hard, it's hot, and your wrist looks like it's swelled up a bit more. Let me see it."

"Thanks." Susan was grateful for the cup of tea; something hot was exactly what she needed-it was uncanny how Peter almost always seemed to know these things.

"You're welcome." He was still staring anxiously at the hurt wrist.

"Peter, it's fine, really…it doesn't hurt that much anymore."

"Let me see it."

"Peter, please."

"Susan, let me see it."

She gave in and, setting the tin mug down on the small stand near the bunk, next to an oil lantern, stretched out her wrist so that he could examine it.

He held it gently, blinking back tears.

"It's all right, don't cry."

Peter smiled faintly. "I couldn't help it, sorry."

The noise that came from Maugrim at this was laced with scorn, but it wasn't unkindly meant.

"Well," said Peter, glancing at Maugrim over his shoulder then looking back at his wife, "just for that…" He brought the bruised wrist to his lips and kissed it once very tenderly before letting Susan draw it back.

Susan blushed, established married woman though she was; Maugrim fought against a slight grin and rolled his eyes.

There was a knock at the cabin door and Peter stood to answer it.

"Here's that ointment you were a wanting," said one of wives of the Gyptian archers who had fought in the raid as she stood in the cabin's doorway, holding out a small indigo-coloured jar.

"Thanks," said Peter gratefully, taking it from her.

"How is she?" the woman asked.

"Tired," Peter sighed. "Very tried."

"You make sure she gets some sleep, then."

"I will," he promised.

"Poor miss," lamented the Gyptian woman. "Is she being certain that she doesn't want a proper bandage for her wrist?"

"She says no." He shrugged his shoulders; he couldn't force her to wear one if she didn't feel she needed it. "But if she changes her mind, I'll let you know."

"I don't approve of killing, you know, but…wells…all I says is that if anyone's got to be knocked off for the good of humanity and self-defense en all…men like that lordship should go first."

Peter couldn't agree with her more. "Oh, and have you seen Lucy?"

"Lyra and Billy Costa and that nice alethiometrist are keepin' her company; she seems in good enough spirits."

"That's good."

"Yes, well, goodnight."

"Goodnight, and thank you."

"Wasn't no trouble," she assured him.

Shutting the door, Peter showed Susan the jar. "All right, let me see the scratches."

Susan slowly took off her dressing-gown and allowed him to pull back the collar of the nightdress she wore underneath. She had some scratches there, on her upper back, from the bark of the tree when Peter had had to pull her up so quickly; it had, unfortunately, torn the back of the clothes she'd been wearing and cut into the skin a bit, leaving a few bright red marks.

"I'm so sorry, Su," he said for what she guessed was at least the tenth time.

"Peter," she snapped as he pulled her hair over her shoulder so he could see the marks better as he rubbed the ointment into them, "stop apologizing. You _saved_ me. I don't even want to _think_ about what would have happened if…" Her voice trailed off; Peter knew Rabadash had dragged her off without her consent, and that he was threatening her, trying to force himself on her, but she wasn't sure if he knew about the nobleman's hand going up her skirt. Better not to tell him, it would only frustrate and anger him more.

"There you are." Peter finished with the ointment and carefully straightened out her collar over it. "All set."

"Peter?" Susan whispered as he leaned over the bunk to blow out the lantern's light and she lowered herself down under the warm covers, blankets, and comforter.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can you sleep with your arm around my waist tonight?" She wanted to feel protected.

"I'd prefer it," he murmured in her ear as they settled down to sleep.

Soon he could hear his wife and her Maugrim snoring in unison. All was well, at least for the moment, there was nothing else to be done.

Under the bright stars against the pitch-black contrast of the velvety-dark night sky, Lucy stood on deck. She ought to have been asleep, of course, but she could will herself to sleep. She would close her eyes and wait and wait, but the land of nod remained islands and chasms and caves-even continents-away from her.

Finally she had given up and left the cabin she was sharing with Lyra. Reepicheep consented to ride on his human's shoulder.

There was the sound of flapping wings and Lucy knew through Reepicheep that Ella-and so obviously Edmund as well-was coming up behind them.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No, I tried but…" She turned to face him, her back against the railing she'd been leaning forward on up till then. "You neither?"

"No," he lied, fighting a yawn. In truth, he could have slept fine-the raid had worn him to a shadow-but he was worried about her and resolved that if his Lucy couldn't sleep than neither would he.

Ella clanked her beak and twisted it, her great big eyes even larger than usual with suppressed tiredness. Flapping her wings again, she took off from her human's shoulder and landed on the ship's railing.

"Are you all right?" Edmund asked Lucy finally, knowing that killing Rabadash had left her sort of dazed.

"Yes." And she was, too, save still rather in shock. "Is Susan all right, do you know?"

Edmund took her hand in his. "She's fine, I'm sure of it." Their fingers interlocked and their dæmons-both on the railing now, as Reep had climbed there and curled his tail around it-came closer together. "She has Peter looking after her," he pointed out, knowing Lucy of all people would understand what that meant.

"That's right." When she thought about it that way, there wasn't much need for anxiety. "Why do people do things like that, Ed?"

His forehead crinkled. "Like what?"

"Like Rabadash kidnapping Susan, and then trying to kill Peter," said Lucy, an expression of sadness mixed with fear and anger, laced with confusion, forming on her face. "Or like that man who pushed Farder Coram even though he was old and weak, and anyone could see it. I don't understand…I killed someone today, but not because I wanted to, I wasn't even trying to…I can't understand wanting to hurt someone…or, rather, I can't imagine putting a want like that into action. I've been angry before, but not…not like…Why are people like that so angry, Edmund?"

Part of him was dying to say it was much too late at night to be concerned with such things, but he very nearly thought he saw tears glinting in her eyes. "A lot of them are just bad people," said Edmund, this time unable to hold back the massive yawn that forced itself between his parted lips while he spoke. "That's all."

"But _why_?"

"How could anyone know that?" Another yawn arrived and made his eyes water; Ella's owl-eyes went slightly glassy.

"But they aren't _all_ bad people," Lucy pointed out. "Emeth used to work for Rabadash…and he's good anyway."

"Emeth made the choice to be good."

"Like you did." Lucy looked very thoughtful. "But, then, I always thought you were good; even when we had to flee from Bolvangar…I knew you were good when Trumpkin turned up with those insulated mugs and a map…I knew right away that you sent him."

"Hmm?" Edmund was struggling to follow her line of thought now, nearly sleeping and standing at the same time.

"Go to bed, Edmund."

"Don't tell me when to go to bed," he grunted, sounding much more-Lucy thought-like how his voice must have been as a small child when he was sullen over some matter than like an almost all grown-up alethiometrist. Ella snapped her beak tersely at nothing to further her master's point.

"You're tried, Ed." She felt sorry for having kept him up.

"Maybe a little," he gave in.

"We can talk tomorrow." She patted his shoulder.

Edmund yawned long and openly, no longer fighting it. "Are you sure," he managed in-between the yawning, "that you're going to be all right?"

"Yes," she swore.

"You don't mind being out here all by yourself?"

She shook her head. "I'm never by myself," she reminded him; no one who had a dæmon ever was. "Reep will talk to me."

Edmund nodded and tried not to think, in-between sleepy notions, about all those children at Bolvangar who had been cut away from their dæmons and died all alone, naught but a half-person. It was more discouraging than usual because, though they'd won the raid, they hadn't learned anything new regarding the child-cutters' possible comebacks. But he knew he mustn't think of that now, he'd never get to sleep if he did, and he was so tried he thought he might drop right there on the deck.

"Night, Lu."

"Goodnight, Ed."

"Lucy?" said Reepicheep forlornly.

"Yes?"

"Why don't you think everyone sees what's really good? Like Dust. The Gyptians. Alethiometers. So many people believe they're evil. Why do you think they can't see it? Why do you think they don't believe in Aslan?"

"I don't know," said Lucy pensively, her fingers playing with the chain on her alethiometer, which she had been holding for comfort while she stood out there. "Maybe they don't really want to."

On the morning the ships sent out for the raid made it back to the Dawn Treader, Farder Coram and Gael, as well as several of Lord John Faa's advisors who had been-like Farder Coram-too old to fight swiftly, were waiting for them. It was a cool morning, slightly foggy, and so they had taken care to set a few lanterns out for the arrival.

Edmund had rather been dreading the moment when he would have to tell those who had remained on the Dawn Treader about the raid's lack of success Bolvangar-news-wise, but the kindly looks on the faces of the old Gyptians all said only one thing, "That's all right, better luck next time." They already knew, it turned out. Serafina Pekkala's dæmon had come and told them all about it.

Their concern was still there-and highly visible, at that-they did not try to mask it, which Edmund appreciated and respected deeply, and yet they did not push any burden on him or the others who had fought. How anyone who knew anything true about Gyptians, good people like these, could ever discriminate against them, could ever hate them as some land-people did…well, it really was no wonder Lucy was so angry about it.

Gael practically flung herself into Edmund's arms at first sight, and Pattertwig became an owl very like Ella but with darker feathers, closer to tawny-cream than to white.

There was much rejoicing, in spite of the many set-backs, and comforting going around, till finally, within only a few days, it was very nearly a sort of celebration. Things had not gone as well as they could have, it was true, but they were in motion, and injuries, while numerous, were not as bad as they could have potentially been.

And Rhince revealed that he knew how to play the fiddle, starting up a merry tune which Tony Costa added to by banging two spoons against his lap in time with the rhythm so that it made it even happier-sounding. Gael was not a particularly good singer, but-as with many little girls of that age-she had what was considered a 'cute voice', and so no one minded her high-pitched, occasionally faltering and wavering, trill. There weren't many words anyway, so mostly she just sort of made little sounds like humming, only louder.

Soon there were whirling partners and swaying (almost giddy) dæmons all over the deck.

Peter and Susan danced together; as did Edmund and Lucy. Somehow or other Lyra ended up being paired with Billy Costa, who tried to be gracious but finally could not contain himself any longer and snapped that for the love of all that was good and holy would she please stop trying to lead?

"You en't supposed to do that!" he huffed, Ratter making a frustrated grinding sound with her teeth. "The man's s'posed to lead, you know it."

"Well, you were doin' it wrong," Lyra protested demurely.

"I was tryin' to get you to step on my feet less, Lyra."

"If you led right, I wouldn't." Lyra pouted; Pan made a snarling noise in Ratter's direction.

Billy scowled. "You ain't _letting_ me lead!"

"That's cuz you _can't_!"

"I can."

"No, you can't."

"You en't right."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you ain't."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"Billy," –this came from Ma Costa, "don't you be tellin' Lyra to shut up, that's not how we a talk to ladies in this family."

At that, Billy grinned and looked at Lyra as if he had something big to hold over her. "That's right," he said, knowing Lyra had some apprehensions about being called 'a lady', "I'm sorry, _Lady_."

Lyra shoved him so hard that he landed on his back, almost on the opposite side of the deck. "How's that for a lady? Even Gyptians can't make me a lady. There ain't no one who can; not all the forces in the world combined."

"All right, all right," Billy gave in, scrambling back up to his feet. "You ain't a lady."

Lyra stood, still as anything, her face gone white. She thought, for one spilt second, that he sounded a little bit like Roger might have after one of their 'fights' back at Jordan; that combination of defeat and genuine remorse. She bit her lower lip. Billy Costa had never spoken to her like that before; he was the sort who never backed down, even when others got mad at him. Why, he had even opened casks of wine and gotten himself a clout in an attempt to prove her wrong, to stand up to her bullying!

"What's wrong?" He noticed the look on her face was not one of satisfaction, the way it should have been after winning a debate so absolutely.

"Nuffin," she said hastily, wiping at her eyes before he could dare accuse her of holding back tears.

Lyra and Billy sat out the next dance; Rhince adjusted his fiddle under his chin, preparing to play another up-beat song.

But he was not to begin.

The good times, while they had only just started, and not even in earnest at that, were already over.

A ship arrived unannounced, and a Telmarine Gyptian man was lifted up because he couldn't come onto the Dawn Treader without assistance; he was too badly hurt for that.

Pattertwig was a squirrel again and Gael was clasping him in her arms, her face pale with confusion and fear over this sudden arrival. Rhince's eyes were wide as he set the fiddle down. Some of those who had been dancing and laughing and eating and drinking stood as still as statues as they watched. One man had an open bottle of ale that he did not bring to his lips. Trumpkin had been cleaning his pipe and held the handkerchief above it, forgetting for the moment to tell his fingers to bring it down. Lord Asriel had one hand absently on his rifle; Stelmaria's teeth were bared anxiously. One of Peter's arms was still loosely wrapped around Susan's waist, as he'd been about to spin her around.

"Gracious God," said Farder Coram, coming close to where the injured man was being helped up, "what's this?"

Lucy scooped up Reepicheep and ran forward, Edmund and Ella taking off right behind her, unsure if it was safe. None of them knew what was going on.

Then Tony Costa said, "Hey, theys the two men who's s'posed to be in Narrowhaven, en't they?"

It was at that moment that Lucy and Farder Coram, squinting in the darkness as someone finally had the good-sense to bring a lantern over that way, recognized the injured Telmarine Gyptian; it was Caspian.


	24. Of Wounds and Misunderstandings

His seagull-dæmon looked frail and he rested limply, like a bird with two broken wings, on his human's chest, which only just barely moved up and down consistently.

"Caspian, come back," said Farder Coram, noticing the blank, clouded look that was beginning to come into the Telmarine Gyptian Lord's half-closed eyes. "Try to focus on me. Come on, I know it en't easy, I know. Focus. Look at me. Try to stare into my face. You try to concentrate, alright? You got to."

Caspian's left arm and shoulder were covered in dark, partly caked-on but still streaming, blood that soaked through his torn, pale gray-and-white shift. The two others with him had tried, in an attempt to keep him warm if nothing else, to put a jerkin or a cloak over him, but the touch of the fabrics-most of which were stronger than they were soft-over the wound that was not properly bandaged only seemed to make his pain greater still.

"What happened?" Farder Coram's tabby tried talking to the borderline-listless seagull dæmon.

In spite of his weakened state, he still seemed a very little bit more alert than his master currently did. If they couldn't keep Caspian awake and concentrating by talking to him, his dæmon would be the one who would have to pull them through it.

"Sohonax?" murmured the seagull.

"Yes, yes," said the tabby-dæmon, responding to her name, "it's me. Can your human see us?"

"Blurry," the seagull explained softly.

"Not blinded? He wasn't hit in the head?"

"No," the seagull managed to assure them. "He can see; so can I. We are very tried, though."

"Make him stay awake, just for a little longer…tell him he can sleep later," the tabby ordered, pressing her paws lightly against one of the seagull's injured wings to keep his attention. "We are going to care for his wounds and give him medicine…he can sleep after that, we promise it. Just don't let him sleep now; we're not sure if we're losing him. We don't want him to die. Do you understand? Try to make him focus."

By then everyone else on deck, and many who'd come out from their cabins or the storage rooms below deck, were crowding round him as close as Farder Coram, John Faa, Lucy Pevensie, and the alethiometrist would let them.

"Farder Coram," Caspian finally muttered. His eyes shut all the way, but only for an instant, his lids crinkling tightly as he winced; then they were open again, a little more life seeming to peer out of them this time.

"Caspian, we're going to help you into a cabin," Farder Coram told him. "Edmund's going to lift you on one side, Rhince on the other. What I want you to be doing is lookin' at Lucy on my left, don't take your eyes off of her, try to talk to her and meet 'er eyes if you think you can manage it, alright? Just don't close your eyes again till we a say it's safe, got it?"

"Yes, Farder Coram." His eyelids must have felt very heavy because everyone could tell how dear it cost him to keep them open, ever wider, ever more painstakingly alert.

Edmund, as he helped Rhince lift him, wondered how he could stand it.

"Peter," said John Faa, looking over one broad shoulder at the dæmonless man, his own crow-dæmon perched as frozenly as a gargoyle on the opposite one, "do us a favor and speak to them two that brought him back."

"Yes, Your Grace." He tried not to stare at Caspian's bloody injury as he was carried passed.

Peter felt a little ashamed, though, that Edmund-a chap younger than he himself was-could swallow his frightened, even repulsed, feelings and just do what he needed to without making faces, and here he was cowardly trying to avoid seeing the pain of his Telmarine Gyptian friend. All the same, he found he couldn't help it; he could only keep his expression stony and do as Lord Faa ordered. Nothing else was going to get him, or anyone else, through this.

"What should I do?" Susan asked practically, never one to stand on the sidelines and gawk for long when the initial feelings of near-hysteria had passed over her and everyone else at last.

"Go with them," Peter told her sort of quietly as he started walking over to where the other two were to follow John Faa's orders. "You can talk to Caspian and help bind his wounds as well as Lucy can, and I don't want her staying up all night with him. Edmund told me she hasn't been sleeping well as of late. She needs her rest; this will have been quite a shock for her, besides."

"Very well," Susan agreed, lifting her skirts to walk faster and going after the small group taking Caspian to a cabin.

"So what happened?" Peter turned to the two grave-faced men.

"Someone in Narrowhaven learned-we aren't really being sure _how_ , to tell the truth aright, but they learned it all the same-that he was a Gyptian spy. They aren't powerful fond of Gyptians, as you know."

Peter nodded in a, "Yes, I know, please go on," way.

"Well, perhaps Lord Faa would've done better if he'd a left us with more men…we were attacked…Caspian, more specifically, since he was clearly the one in charge and the one of nobler birth."

Peter's brow lowered itself in a moment of slight confusion. "I thought the inn was a safe place for Gyptians; harming them would be a death-blow to business there, wouldn't it?"

"Aye," chimed in the second man, who'd, up till this point, been letting his companion do most of the talking. "Aye, not good at all. But it weren't in the inn that he was harmed. Not even on the grounds."

"While out spying, then?"

"That's right."

Peter chewed pensively on the inside of his lower lip. "Bolvangar?"

They shrugged their shoulders simultaneously. "Dunno. Shouldn't think it likely…Normal thugs is most probable."

"They shot him in the arm, then?" Peter asked, feeling immediately stupid. Of all the obvious questions…of _course_ he was shot in the arm (and in the shoulder)! He wasn't bleeding there for pleasure!

"That's right."

"Erm…was it a rifle or an arrow?"

"Both," they answered. "One had an arrow, one had him a pistol or a rifle…the sun was low-setting-we hadn't any rill way of being sure…"

"Hmm," said Peter.

"Sir," they said, speaking in strained tones, "could we rest now? We're dead-tried…had to carry 'im…to the ship…no sleep…"

"Oh, of course!" He felt horrible for not even offering them a seat while they talked; their eyes were so dark round the edges… "Go on. I'll tell John Faa what you told me. I won't keep you."

"Good man." One of them clapped his arm in a friendly, relieved manner.

In the meantime, Caspian had been helped into a large cot almost the shape and size of a regular bed, the sort any castle on land would have had in a fine chamber, only its sides were higher up and of a rougher-cut despite being made of fine, gleaming mahogany that had two or three unfixable dents in it.

This was a cabin belonging to one of John Faa's sons, but the Gyptian prince didn't mind giving it up to a fellow Gyptian noble in need.

All the while Ma Costa and Farder Coram were binding his wounds, Caspian had to talk to Lucy Pevensie while his seagull weakly attempted to chat-and even jokingly nudge-Reepicheep. He didn't want to talk, especially not about such frivolous things as weather, the look of the cabin, taxes, books, anything at all that Lucy could come up with. It was doubly hard because there were tears in her eyes and so any opinion she expressed on those light-hearted matters seemed horribly forced and stiff. But Farder Coram knew what he was doing; they had to trust him.

After a bit, Caspian thought he couldn't bear it any longer and was-not in his right mind-even thinking that death could not be worse than this forced talking, this pretend-ignorance of the pain in his shoulder, the shallowness of his breath…a few more inches and they would have killed him…he nearly wished they had…

Then, as the world was growing murky again, he found that his arm was bound, Ma Costa had her arms around Lucy (who was little more than a blur with a mouse-dæmon clinging to her shoulder) and was leading her out of the cabin, Edmund and John Faa were leaving, and Farder Coram was saying…oh, the most beautiful thing Caspian had ever thought to hear…that he could sleep now only he mustn't protest _if_ they woke him up in a little while to see how he was doing, should they for any reason think the need had arisen.

Yes, yes, of course he agreed; anything they wanted-anything! He just needed so badly to close his eye-lids; he'd never had to lift something so heavy in all his life…

Everything was black.

For what might (or might not) have been hours his mind was blank. Then there was a touch of a dream floating around. There was a beautiful woman sitting beside the cot, taking care of him while he dozed on. The milky face and starry eyes paired with golden hair were unmistakable for anyone besides Ramandu's daughter. How he could see her with his eyes closed did not occur to him, as he was so tried, and that is the way it is with dreams sometimes anyway; even when a person thinks they're real at the time, they don't generally try to make sense of it all until they have woken up for real.

When Caspian began to wake, he felt at once that his head was pounding and his arm was absolutely _killing_ him. The tight bandages were there to help, and he knew that, but it didn't make the sharp pains from it any easier to deal with.

Finally he managed to open his eyes; and they immediately started darting around, looking for Ramandu's daughter.

But it wasn't Ramandu's daughter who was sitting beside him, changing the cloth on his arm and shoulder when the gauze became too bloody or dirty or hung wrong because of the way he was squirming. No, instead, he saw, not without a sharp twinge of disappointment, that it was Susan Pevensie. Maugrim had his paws up on the side of the bed and was keeping a keen, watchful eye on the seagull-dæmon.

"Oh," Caspian said, noticing her before she realized he was awake. "It's you."

Susan could hear the disappointment in his voice clear as day. "You can go back to sleep," she told him sharply as she adjusted his arm. "I have things well in hand, thank you."

"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise," he amended, trying to smile at her but mostly grimacing unintentionally.

She forced a tiny smile. "You seem to be doing better."

"Yes," said Caspian, his voice still a tad wistful, "that is good."

"Are the bandages too tight?" Susan asked after a pause. "Maugrim told me that they were; he sensed your dæmon's discomfort. I've loosened them a bit since then."

"Well the lowest one feels like it's digging into the cut," he admitted.

"All right." Susan sucked in a deep breath, knowing it wasn't his fault. "Try to lift it when I say to. It'll make it easier to re-wrap."

"No problem."

"Good."

"Where is everybody else?"

"Sleeping," Susan told him. "Well, most of them, anyway. It's well after midnight. Peter, Edmund, and Lord Asriel are in a meeting with Lord Faa and a few others-Rhince as well, I think-but except for them everyone went to bed hours ago."

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"Someone had to take care of you," grunted Maugrim, nudging the seagull in a light reprimand. "And we weren't about to put Lucy and Ma Costa through the trouble."

"That was very kind of you."

Susan shrugged her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. "I suppose. Lift your arm now."

He did so, trying not to cringe. "I'm sorry if I sounded upset to see you."

"It's fine."

"I was having a dream about…" His cheeks went red. "About Ramandu's daughter. I thought you were her for a second."

"Ah." She and her wolf exchanged amused expressions; they understood now.

"Is it sick that I think I may be in love with someone who was my ancestor's lover?"

"I wouldn't know, it's too confusing," Susan said, her voice slightly apathetic, unwrapping the bandage. "In your case, perhaps it's not."

"Do you think she likes me?"

Susan sucked her teeth; he'd lowered his arm and she was too tried for this nonsense. "Yes, I think she likes you very much. Now will you please keep your arm up? I'm going to have to replace the bandage completely. It's soaked through again."

"More sweat than blood," Maugrim added, snarling, sniffing at the bandage.

"Sorry." He lifted his arm again. "I don't think she would ever…"

"She might." Susan started to roll the fresh bandage around his arm.

"No," he decided, "she wouldn't." The seagull made a sad, defeated-sounding noise.

"Yeah, that's a real shame," said Maugrim curtly, not as if he truly thought it _was_ a shame in the least.

"Hush, Maugrim." Susan did feel a little bad. After all, Caspian had been more than understanding when the situation was reversed, on the way to Jordan College, when she wasn't sure if Peter still wanted her. She supposed, late as the hour was, much as she was longing for sleep herself, that she could be a touch more sympathetic.

"It's very hard," said Caspian, reaching across the bed to stroke his dæmon's feathers, "being in love with someone you can never have. Somebody you are not _meant_ to have."

This time Susan made a little hum of sympathy come out of her throat; she could relate to that. A certain Coulter girl of about thirteen years old who had fallen madly in love with a dæmonless boy of no consequence came to her mind.

"You probably have no idea what I am talking about."

"No," she said softly, finishing binding his arm. "I think I understand better than most, actually."

"You would, I suppose," he had to admit.

"Yes."

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead." She nodded encouragingly.

"Why did you decide to go after him?" he wanted to know. "Why did you change your name and go out of your way to find someone who you hadn't even seen for four years…It was a big leap down for you, wasn't it? From being a lady to being a charity scholar's wife. It would have been nearly the same result in society's eyes as if you'd married into a culture they looked down upon; say, the Gyptians, for example."

It was complicated. On the one hand, it had been because she was terrified of Lord Rabadash and she would have had to marry him if she had chosen to stay behind, to remain a Coulter. But it wasn't only that; it couldn't have been. To avoid becoming Rabadash's wife, she'd tried to kill herself. When that failed, and Edmund offered to help her get away to where ever she wanted to be, she could have gone anywhere.

It occurred to her now, thinking it over, that she might have easily chosen to go someplace else, to work her way up, to hide in a less obvious place than Jordan College. But that had not even remotely seemed an option at the time. No, all she knew then was that she simply had to find the boy-man, by then-who's heart she broke and apologize. She had, somewhat uncharacteristically, followed her own heart. Her sense for once in her life had sided with it, and had all but shut up otherwise. The clean-cut simple answer was that she loved him. And, yet, it ran deeper, she discovered, even than that in itself.

Her expression twisting into something distant and melancholy, Susan said, "It ruined me, marrying him. What I did, going off and finding him, it ruined whatever standing I had in good society." She smiled to herself as she spoke, and Caspian understood that she was not saying this regretfully but, rather, proudly with a devil-may-care-and-I'd-do-it-all-over-again-if-I-had-the-choice expression on her face.

Maugrim yawned a doggish yawn. His mistress had been married for all this time and she could still talk about her husband like a smitten teenager when she got romantic notions seeping in-between her sensible thoughts; he was pretty much passed waiting for the phase to be over and was more or less acceptant of it.

"My mother called me some very…unpleasant…names when she saw me again afterwards."

"And you didn't care, did you?"

"I was scared," Susan admited. "But I was only scared of _her_ , not of what I had done. I was happy to be ruined; happy he ruined me, happy I ruined myself. You see, I've realized something; Peter isn't a man without a dæmon anymore."

"He's not?" This was interesting.

"Being husband and wife has made us as close as any human and dæmon ever were. We share pain as well as happiness, and if anything ever happened to him, I would feel like only half a person. I have friends I love, but none who would make me feel as if I could not go on if I lost them; none that I would feel cut apart from. Oh, Maugrim," she whispered, looking at the wolf with more sentimentality than she usually carried in a single expression, never one to wear her heart on her sleeve, "we _are_ Peter's dæmon." She paused and seemed to be thinking about something. Then, to Caspian, "Did you know we have a son?"

"I had gathered as much." Caspian shrugged his one good shoulder, making the other one sting a bit. "Ouch."

"Careful," she told him.

"Don't let her get started about Christian." Maugrim actually spoke directly to Caspian instead of to his dæmon this time. "You'll never hear the end of it."

Susan made a face at her dæmon. "Oh, like you aren't proud of him!"

"I am," Maugrim admited. "Only I don't talk about it as much as you do. At least it's not streams, though."

"Streams?" Caspian raised an eyebrow.

"Long story." Susan went a little red in the face. "It's a sort of private joke between Maugrim, Peter, and me."

"Ah, I see."

"Well at least the little blighter is safe with his grandparents," Maugrim sighed.

"Susan?" said Caspian a few moments later when they'd been sitting quietly after Maugrim's comment, not much else to say.

"Yes?"

"Do you think that's what I should do?" he wanted to know. "Ruin myself, ruin her, and just hope it works out?"

"Whoa, whoa," Maugrim barked. "We're in no position to give advice to anyone! What we did was madness."

Susan snorted. "Well of course it was…but it kept us whole."

"You're right," Caspian said. "I could at least try…I could talk to her…if I make it…"

"I think," said Susan, her tone pretend-curt, "the odds of you living through this are well in your favor."

"That's nice." He sighed.

"The seagull wants to know how long we're staying in here," Maugrim told his mistress.

"Not long," said Susan. "You can go back to sleep if you want, Caspian. I'm only to stay here until John Faa comes, and I think I saw his shadow pass by the door a little while ago-he'll be here soon."

Maugrim suddenly looked discomfited. "Wait, John Faa wasn't at the door."

"Well somebody was, I think." Susan blinked and put her hand down on the wolf's head. "I saw a shadow in passing."

"If it was John Faa, I would have sensed his crow."

"And you didn't?"

"No," said the wolf. "I didn't sense _any_ dæmon."

"Perhaps you just didn't notice," Susan said airily. "We are over-tired." Maugrim did not look convinced.

"Bad things happen when you're over-tired," Caspian teased. "I was over-tired the night I tried to kiss you on Lee Scoresby's airship."

"Oh, shut up." Susan laughed, glad he was feeling well enough to joke again.

The reason Maugrim had not sensed another dæmon's presence when Susan thought she saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye, passing by the door, was simply because the person who it really was-not John Faa, after all-didn't have one.

The man who had been in the doorway was Peter.

He had been meaning to knock lightly against the wood of the door before announcing his presence when he heard Caspian say something rather curious; some gibberish about being in love with someone he couldn't have. What was that all about? Perhaps he was confused? Anyone would be after such an injury as he suffered with. Then Susan said that about 'understanding', and that was followed by Caspian's odd question about why she had married a dæmonless nobody.

Unable to believe his ears, Peter stayed just long enough to hear Susan say that marrying him had ruined her. Unlike Caspian, he couldn't see her face, thus he had no way of knowing she was happy about being 'ruined'. After that, he turned and left.

Hearing only part of the conversation, he had been left with the wrong impression entirely. It seemed to him that his beloved wife no longer cared for him. Was it possible, he wondered, that she was now interested in Caspian of all people? It would explain that rubbish he was saying at the start of the conversation, loving someone he couldn't have. It made perfect sense, really, much as Peter wished it didn't. That had to be it. Caspian was interested in her, but she was a married woman and so he couldn't have her. And now Susan was returning his interest, or at least admitting she wanted to.

But that didn't make sense. This was _Susan_ , after all. Susan loved him; she loved their family, her in-laws, their son…she truly did, and he knew it. Why, though, would she have said what he'd heard her say? The Susan he knew would never say their marriage had ruined her.

Besides, wasn't she already ruined, running away from her betrothed? Was that why she married him? For protection? Was it possible that she really had only meant to apologize for how she'd treated him back at Bolvangar, and he himself had blown the whole thing out of proportion by asking her to be his wife?

"That's stupid," he told himself, almost laughing at the absurdity of the notion. "She told you she loved you, you didn't pull a proposal out of thin air!"

She'd kissed him, too, he remembered. She had _wanted_ to be his wife. If there was interest in another man, it had to have come recently.

He glanced across the deck to where he saw Lord Asriel and Edmund standing talking to a Gyptian sailor on a late-night look-out shift.

Edmund probably really did look a lot like his father, especially as he grew taller. And he looked pretty tall just then…standing beside Lord Asriel like that…almost his height but not quite…

Peter winced and felt a shudder rack his body. Edmund Coulter and Lord Asriel…two men who both loved a Coulter woman…

It was too late for rational thought, the world swam and the deck below his feet swayed more than usual; he had to get to sleep before he lost his mind.

He went to the cabin he was staying in. One side was his and Susan's and the other was currently Tony Costa's (a lot of the cabins got switched around to accommodate different circumstances), but he was already sleeping and he didn't snore so the space was dead-quiet.

Peter crawled into his own cot and closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep; he just stared at the back of his eye-lids for hours, lying flat on his back.

During those hours Susan came in and curled up next to him after John Faa had relieved her of her task and sent her away.

Peter did in fact notice that Susan rested her head on the side of his shoulder, but he pretended not to. He pretended that lightly pushing her away and twisting as far from her as the cot would allow him to was simply something he did in his sleep.


	25. The Return to Jordan College

"Jordan College?" Susan repeated, to be sure she'd heard John Faa correctly.

"Have you lost your marbles?" Maugrim demanded, adding onto his human's point.

Lord Faa sighed and leaned heavily on the one arm propped on the edge of the long wooden table in the middle of the counsel cabin. "It's probably for the best that we make fast and clear out from going into port towns for a bit…after what happened to Caspian in Narrowhaven and all…"

"Of course," said Susan, impatiently. "But, Your Grace, we aren't in a port town; we're in the middle of the ocean. This is where it's safe."

"We can't all stay here for ever, Su," said Edmund, Ella bobbing her head from where she was perched on the high, oak-wood back of his chair. "John Faa may live here most of the time, but he isn't used to keeping so many others on with him."

It was true; John Faa had enough to feed and clothe and shelter his courtiers and closest blood-relatives on-board the Dawn Treader on a regular basis, and he could afford guests and the occasional roping when circumstances changed and need arose, but he couldn't keep them all-all of the extra Gyptians, Peter, Susan, Edmund, Lucy, Lord Asriel, and Lyra-on there with him for ever.

Soon it would be time for the clan Ma Costa and Farder Coram belonged to to return to the ground near (and owned by) Jordan College. If they left within the next few days and met with decent weather and no dire accidents, they would arrive only a little earlier in the year than usual. As long as the Ruling Powers themselves didn't come after them, no one would take much note and things would just go on as they always had.

"But it en't safe, is it?" Lyra's brow furrowed. Part of her would love to return home, to the place where she had grown up, back to all of the familiar sights and smells and lifestyles of the college; but she couldn't imagine a more obvious place for them to be caught. Surely the Ruling Powers would never let her, Lucy, and Edmund-an alethiometrist-live there peacefully. Not for long, anyway.

John Faa explained, though he already had twice before, that this was not to be permanent. He thought it best if Farder Coram had the opportunity to seek advice from the Master of the college. The Master loved Lyra almost as if she were his own daughter and was quite fond of Lucy as well; he would never betray them. Of course there would be Gyptian spies all over the place, likely going unnoticed, who would alert them to all possible arrivals of anybody working for the Ruling Powers. After they'd been warned, it would be reasonably easy for them to flee into the Gyptian camps, to be hidden and protected. Besides, they didn't know what to do next. The Stars and Witches had given them no further instruction as of yet. Lyra and Lucy tried to ask the alethiometers, as did Edmund, but got no comprehendible answer.

Still, Susan wasn't convinced; she kept insisting that they ought not to go near Jordan-it was too dangerous, she pointed out several times. Maugrim growled, noticing that no one was agreeing with them.

Finally, Peter turned and glared at her. "We're going back to Jordan-John Faa has arranged it all and explained why-can you give it a rest now?"

"I was just trying to be realistic." Her voice faltered slightly towards the end of her sentence.

"No," her husband scoffed, "you're trying to be _smart_." He wouldn't even give her direct eye-contact as he glowered crankily. "Shut up."

Susan folded her arms across her chest, getting fed up with him more and more quickly. She didn't know what his problem was. For the last two days he'd been irritable and snappish with her. He never smiled or said anything even remotely endearing; and he pushed away an attempts at affection-whether physical or emotional. Everything she did seemed to make him either apathetic or angry. What was more, she even got the sense that he was trying to avoid her altogether for the most part.

Maugrim growled and the fur on the back of his neck stood up testily. The wolf-dæmon didn't know why Peter was suddenly being so cold and distant towards his human, but he hoped he would stop it soon and was even planning to bite him if he kept it up for too much longer.

"I think it is just as well that we go to see the Master," said Lord Asriel, lightly patting Stelmaria on the side of her snowy flanks. "I haven't seen him for a while myself."

Susan scowled, taking the nobleman's wanting to do the opposite of what she felt was safe as a personal offense and another reason to hate him. She could hardly help being moody, all things considered.

"Costas," John Faa looked up from some records he seemed to have been thumbing through briefly, "Caspian will stay in your family's tent."

"Wait." Peter put up a hand, his expression looking even more ticked off than before. "Why is _he_ coming?"

Caspian, who was sitting only a few feet away from Peter, crinkled his forehead, wondering why Peter said 'he' with such utter contempt. He couldn't remember having said or done anything to upset Peter. But it wasn't just anger in his icy stare; there was also the look of a man who'd been betrayed and slapped across the face, one deeply hurt.

"Peter," said Farder Coram in a kindly voice, "Caspian can't be a going back to his land-holdings on his own, with only a few men at best, in his condition. He'll need more time to heal proper en all. Besides, it's up north and it'd be too far out of the way for the time being."

Farder Coram was right, and Peter knew that, but it didn't mean he had to be happy about the result of the matter, either. He just continued to brood in a frustrated manner.

"You know what?" Susan finally snapped, not at Peter but at the whole congregated group in general. "I think this is the most absurd idea ever…and I jolly well think I will be as stubborn as anyone else in this cabin and refuse to go to Jordan College whether or not the majority of you do." Maugrim grunted for emphasis.

"Now, Susan," began John Faa, about to gently remind her that, Gyptian though he was, he was still a king.

"Susan," Peter cut in, slamming a foot that had been tapping in annoyance since Farder Coram had explained why Caspian had to go with them down on the cabin floor with a hard _thud_ , "you are my wife. And if _I'm_ going to Jordan College then so are you, whether you wish it or not."

"You can't _make_ us go anywhere," Maugrim barked, his lips curled up into a snarl.

"Try me." This time Peter's eyes met Susan's and refused to back down. She knew he meant what he said.

"I'm going to bite you," Maugrim out-right threatened him.

"I'm not scared of you," Peter scoff-laughed.

Maugrim took a threatening step forward, his teeth still bared.

"All right," Peter gave in, his face recoiling slightly. "You scare me a little…sometimes…" Susan's expression was void of any pity and was every bit as intense as her dæmon's. " _Both_ of you," he added.

"I still think it's foolhardy, going back to Jordan like this, and I'll say so until I'm blue in the face," groused Susan, after a pause.

"Buck up," Peter told her rather harshly. "I'm sick of your sulking. If you don't like being with me then…" His voice trailed off, he didn't know what else to say, because, really, he wasn't referring only to her not wanting to go to Jordan with him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you _think_?" His eyes, she thought, actually looked a little moist. He must not have gotten enough sleep the night before.

"Why are you being so hard on her?" Caspian put in innocently, honestly concerned, having noticed the recent change in Peter's manner of dealing with Susan.

" _You_ stay out of this," Peter told him bitterly.

"Pete," Edmund tried to cut in, sensing now if he hadn't before that he'd missed something. This was about more than just travel plans; there was some deeper issue at stake here that he couldn't figure out.

"Ed, please." He waved him off.

"Ooh, words of wisdom from the alethiometrist," Lord Asriel muttered sarcastically to his snow-leopard. "Sorry we missed _that_."

"Ha ha, very funny," Edmund sneered.

Lucy reached over and patted her boyfriend on the shoulder; Reepicheep made a face at Stelmaria.

"Ahem!" John Faa cleared his throat and banged a well-worn wooden gavel down on the table to regain control of the bickering group.

None of them really wanted to stop arguing, still worked up to no end, but they obeyed the king and stopped speaking their thoughts aloud; though their dæmons were still giving one another looks to kill, some of them still snarling, grunting, or growling under their breaths.

The journey to Jordan College was dour and unpleasant. Aside from Lyra, Edmund, and Lucy, everyone seemed to have something against somebody else and tempers remained unbearably short. Even Lucy saw sense and didn't attempt to cheer anyone one; mostly she just sort of sat in a corner of the Costa's ship and talked with Reepicheep. Sometimes Edmund sat next to her, but there really wasn't much to be said aside from questions they both knew the other had no answers for.

Farder Coram seemed more tired than usual and spent most of his time stroking his tabby-dæmon and staring out to sea. Every once in a while he'd get this look on his face, a dazed-almost sleepwalking-kind of expression, and Lucy thought he was peering out hopefully, wanting to see someone. But if it really was loneliness for Serafina and her grey goose that was breaking his heart and making him so weary, his longing went unanswered, for neither the witch queen nor the goose came to him.

Billy and Lyra spent more time together than they were accustomed to. They had their fights, as always, but unlike everybody else on board, they seemed to get over them as quickly as ever and it got dull just watching Peter glare at Caspian, and Susan mutter inaudible complaints to Maugrim, and Edmund and Lucy sitting side by side not doing much of anything, and Farder Coram all worn and pale and lost. So, in the end, all they had to keep themselves sane and amused was each other.

Lyra was surprised to find that Billy Costa had a sense of humour that wasn't always smart-mouth or practical joke based. And Billy was just as surprised to see that Lyra could sometimes be, dare he think it and risk a clout if she should discover a way to read his mind, _sweet_. He knew she wasn't wicked or bad, that she could be kind when she felt like it, but she was not a person who wore her heart on her sleeve; she was more likely to carry a rock or a mud-ball on or up it and hurl it at anyone she disagreed with. Now, however, he saw a different side of her; a side he found he rather liked. There were even moments when he wondered if all those childhood years of imaginary war had been a bit wasted, if it wouldn't have been more fun still to have been on the _same_ side, instead of opposing one another and plotting and throwing things at one another in the clay-beds and wheat fields.

Their dæmons were growing closer together as well. Ratter and Pantalaimon tackled and scuffled with one another for sheer happiness when their humans came in sight of each other; they stood side by side with only minimum space between them as their master and mistress talked.

The day came when they were finally off the ship and on Jordan property. Things had not improved between Susan and Peter, but others had grown closer. Lucy and Edmund were as tight as ever; Lyra and Billy were thick as thieves; and Gael and Rhince (who was coming along as an attendant for Caspian) had become-for lack of a better term-friends.

With Farder Coram's sudden distance, Gael had tried to re-attach herself to Edmund, only he seemed keen on spending most of his time with Lucy. Wise little thing that she was for her tender years, she continued to think the world of Edmund from afar, still considering him her favorite person, and for company's sake alone-just to have someone to prattle to-started following Rhince around.

Edmund was, at first, pleased with this to no end, glad that Gael would get to know and understand her father, even if she didn't know she was his daughter, like he had never understood or been able to love his. Then, without warning, when they reached the fields near Jordan, Rhince told Edmund something that upset him. He was planning to leave Gael behind at the college, to grow up there. Already he had spoken to Lord Asriel and arranged it all; she would be well cared for by the Master and scholars and would be able to get a more well looked upon education than the Gyptians could offer. And the alethiometrist was utterly appalled.

It wasn't that he didn't want what was best for Gael, he really and truly did. It was merely that he could not handle seeing his half-sister's story begin all over again. The dewy, cloudy morning he heard Gael refer to her father as 'Uncle Rhince', he thought he was going to be sick. Here it was, all starting again. Gael would grow up believing her father to be her uncle. She would be as lost as Lyra had been; and it wasn't fair. Part of him wanted to blame Lucy, as it was her idea to tell Rhince the truth in the first place, but common sense and love told him it wasn't her fault. Lucy couldn't control Rhince's manner of bringing up his daughter, and she'd only wanted happiness for Gael just as he did. So it was with Rhince-and only Rhince-he had the falling out. The two men got along all right in groups, but they never could reconcile themselves to be remotely pleasant on a one-on-one basis again.

It was eventually decided that Edmund, Lyra, and Lucy had no business leaving the Gyptian camps in this time of political trouble without the Master's knowledge so that he could protect them. Because of this, Peter and Susan, along with Farder Coram, Lord Asriel, and Rhince, taking little Gael along with him as he planned to hand her over to the Master that very day, went on their own to the college itself.

"Gael," Edmund beckoned to her before she left. "Be a good girl, all right?"

"Of course." She hugged him goodbye, not knowing yet that the college was to be her home, thinking she would be back at the Gyptian camps by the next morning at latest.

"Here." He took a folded up picture of an alethiometer he'd drawn and handed it to her. "Don't show it to anyone or tell another living soul where you got it, but I want you to have it, all right?" If they didn't meet again, at the college or anywhere else, he wanted her to have something to remember him by.

Ella let out a friendly hoot as her master pressed the paper into Gael's hands.

"I won't tell," she promised, grinning at him as she unfolded the paper and saw the drawing. It was a very, very good likeness to a real alethiometer. Only someone who had studied truth-measures as intently as Edmund could have drawn it. "It's pretty."

"Well, that's not exactly what I was aiming at," Edmund laughed, "but I guess it's true anyway."

"When I grow up," Gael announced, smiling at him, "I want to be just like you."

"Listen to me, Gael," said Edmund, leaning forward and kissing her on the forehead. "When you grow up, I want you to be just like _you_." Ella lightly rubbed one of her wings against Pattertwig, currently in the form of a sparrow.

"If that's what you want," she sighed agreeably.

Lion willing, Edmund thought, she won't be like me. He didn't like the idea of her struggling with the life of an alethiometrist, he wanted something better than that, safer than that, for her. Maybe that was all Rhince wanted, too, even if he showed it in the wrong way.

When the Master saw Lord Asriel, Peter, Susan, and Farder Coram enter the empty (aside from himself) retiring room, his eyes widened, and his raven-dæmon flew over to Stelmaria.

Rhince entered behind the others, leading Gael by the hand.

"Lord Asriel," the Master said when he had recovered from his shock, "after all this time!" Looking at Gael, "Oh, please, not _another_ little girl!"

"You will take her." Lord Asriel did not phrase this as a question because it wasn't one; the Master would take her, and that was that.

"Yes, yes," said the old man, moving on. Of course he would take her; he'd known from the second he saw her that he would, that she would grow up there, and that Lord Asriel and this other fellow leading the child would come and go as they pleased. The story was brought round full circle.

"Please, Master," said Farder Coram, hobbling forward. "I was a wishing to speak with you, Sir. There are some urgent matters."

"I dare say there are!" the Master agreed grimly, his lips stretching into a grimace. "Did you know that the Coulter boy is now an alethiometrist? And Lady Marisa is dead, killed in some so-called accident in the North? That the Ruling Powers…and Lyra and Lucy…they are…all right?"

"They're all right," Peter assured him. "They're perfectly safe."

"Near?"

Peter hesitated. Then, "Well, near enough."

"I see." The Master drew in a sharp breath. "Last I saw you was before that second threat of Rabadash's."

"Lord Rabadash is dead," Susan told him off-handedly.

"Ah." The man registered this. "Your child…Lord Asriel did not…"

So he had heard about that, had he? Lord Asriel did wish they wouldn't harp on it so. "No, I didn't kill it."

" _Him_ ," Susan corrected, through her teeth; Maugrim bared his. "Not _it_."

The Master seemed to understand what had happened. "Scholar Pevensie, perhaps you and your wife should retire to your room while I talk privately with these three and the little girl."

Peter's brows sunk in and his forehead crinkled. "You don't mean you've kept it empty for me all this time?"

"Not intentionally," he explained, shaking his head. "That cat of yours found her way back here-came with the Gyptians, I think, though I could be mistaken-and refused to let anyone else live in there. She hisses like crazy if we try to put a border in that room. We've tried to remove her, but she keeps coming back."

"You don't mean…" He found he could still laugh, and did. "Doe actually came back here and…"

"Oh, yes, made herself right at home." The Master clicked his tongue. "For over two years."

"Well, as happy as I am that Pevensie is going to be reunited with his faux-dæmon," simpered Lord Asriel insincerely, helping himself to some poppy-seeds in a silver container that stood on the table in the center of the room, "I think we can move on to a more pressing subject, don't you?"

"Certainly," said the Master.

After leaving, Peter and Susan didn't speak, Maugrim trotted silently at their side. Instead of going upstairs to their room, they sat on a bench directly out-of-doors on campus, not even glancing at one another.

It was a familiar area. In fact, it was where they had married each other and exchanged the rings Peter bought.

Biting into her lower lip, sick of being angry with him, wishing their fight could be over, Susan finally whispered, "Do you remember what happened over there a few years ago?"

"Yes," he said, forcing his voice to sound cold. " _I_ remember."

"Why don't you like me as much now as you did then?"

"Susan," Peter answered, shaking his head, "I love you every bit as much now as I did then, if not more. It's hardly my fault that you…" He shook his head again.

Stunned and beyond puzzled, she whispered, "That I what?"

"Oh, hang it all!" Peter exclaimed. "I know you wish you hadn't married me, all right?"

Susan's eyes narrowed. "Peter, what in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"I'm sure you'd be happier if a Telmarine Gyptian had 'ruined' you instead of me," he muttered.

"Ruined?" Maugrim echoed, looking at Susan with a brow raised.

"Wait a moment." Susan reached for his hand. "Peter, look at me."

He did, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"Why exactly did you say 'ruined'?" She squeezed his hand to make sure she still held his attention. "Is it because you heard me say it, or because you just felt like using that term for whatever reason?"

"Dash it, of course I heard you say it!" Peter snapped. "And yes, I know about Caspian. And I hate myself."

"You hate yourself?"

"Yes, if you must know, I do." He sighed and tried to pull his hand away from her, but she wouldn't let him. "I've spent days and days trying to tell myself that I don't care if you want to leave me or not, that you're not happy with me. I've been trying to make myself stop caring. But I can't, Susan, I simply can't do it." A few tears escaped and rolled down his cheeks. "I do care…I don't want to be horrible to you and treat you harshly, but I do want to keep you. I don't want you to walk out…and I guess that I thought if I let you think even for a moment that you could…that I cared enough to let you…"

She let go of his hand and gripped both sides of his face. "Stop blubbering, Peter, and tell me exactly what you think you heard."

"I didn't _think_ ," he began.

"Tell me at once," she ordered, "or I swear I will let Maugrim bite you-and hard, too."

He gave in and told her.

Maugrim burst out laughing, and Susan's shoulders shook wildly from repressing her own laughter.

"Oh, Peter, honestly!" She let go of his face. "Do you want to know what I was saying to Caspian? First of all, I wasn't saying I was interested in him, I'm not. Also, I'll have you know I could have had him before I came to you here at Jordan, but I didn't want him. I didn't want him then, and I most certainly do not want him now, do you understand?"

"But…"

Leaning close to him, she told him exactly what she'd meant by 'ruined'.

"Wait, so you never had any intention of leaving me for him?"

"You're an imbecile, do you know that?" Maugrim grunted at him.

"No," said Susan, wiping away the remainder of his tears.

"I've been such an ass," he realized.

"Well, honestly, you were." Susan wasn't about to deny it.

"I'll have to make it up to you somehow," he told her, smiling warmly. "This is something you should feel free to hold over me for a while."

"Hmm, perhaps not." Susan fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously at him. "I think I have an idea about settling this once and for all."

"Do you?" His eyebrows shot up. "Do tell."

"Well," she told him, "there's an empty bedroom in the college…no one needs us at the moment…"

"I'm liking the way this is going," he announced.

Maugrim rolled his eyes. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going to end up staring at the wall again?"

They ignored him and went on flirting.

"Let's go then." Peter stood up from the bench and looked back at his wife expectantly.

"Oh, but it's all the way _upstairs_ ," she moaned with pretend-exasperation and exaggerated exhaustion.

"That's no problem, my love." He reached down and swept her up into his arms. "I'll carry you."

"All the way?"

"All the way," he promised, and tightened his grip and pressed his lips against hers.


	26. Of proposals and unwanted visitors

"Slow half-wit!" shouted Lyra as she dashed through one of the many the wheat fields near Jordan, currently in a race with Billy Costa. Pantalaimon scampered along at her side as she mocked Billy over her shoulder, sticking out her tongue.

A few stray hairs blew into her mouth, perhaps as punishment for her taunting, but she only felt more exhilarated than ever as she lifted her hands and stuffed two fingers between her lips to remove them, without stopping for a proper breather.

In a few moments he caught up with her and stood directly in her way so that she couldn't keep running-all the more so since she was nearly dying with laughter, holding her side. In her excitement she'd forgotten that Billy Costa was taller and faster now than he had been in the old days when they'd played at war as little children. As he was nearly a year her junior, she had found it fairly easy to out-run (and out-wit) him in those days.

Now, he was too quick for Lyra and had tackled her to the ground, pulling her down by her waist, before she managed to catch her long-lost breath.

They wrestled for a bit, making a rather nasty mess of the wheat around them, bending the tallest stalks without taking any notice. Soon, however, it became plain as day that while Lyra was the more clever, finding several ways to make up for her smaller size and not being helpless in the least, Billy was the stronger of the two, having managed to pin his companion to the ground so that no matter how much she struggled she couldn't break free. Their dæmons were fighting, too; and Ratter had gotten something of a death-grip on Pantalaimon's sleek pine marten form.

"Alright, Lyra, yous got to say 'mercy' now."

"Says who?"

"I dunno, it's just the rule, I think," Billy told her. "Cause I won and all."

"I en't given up!" Lyra protested indignantly. "I never said nuffin 'bout being done."

"You can't move," he pointed out. "Hows you gonna win? Admit it, I won. Good game, though."

"Never!" She squirmed some more under his weight, but to no avail.

"Mercy! Mercy!" Pantalaimon gave in, knowing his mistress wouldn't.

"Pan!" she exclaimed, twisting her head to scold her dæmon. "How you could betray me like that?"

"Ratter bit me."

She considered this. "I thought I felt something prickly."

Billy, still not having let her up, laughed.

Frowning up at his face and staring him straight in the eyes, Lyra spat out, "Cheater!" but it was not unkindly meant.

"I ain't a cheater," Billy defended himself, his eyes gleaming playfully.

"Let me up already!" She noticed he was still on top of her.

"Huh?" The young Gyptian looked stunned-and a trifle dazed, as well-like his mind had momentarily been on something else and he'd forgotten all about letting her up. "Oh, sorry."

Getting up, Lyra noticed that Billy's expression had completely changed; he was just sort of staring at her as if he had been blind his whole life and had sudden been, magically and miraculously, given the gift of sight.

"What're you lookin' at?" Lyra pouted, not bothering to straight out her hopelessly wrinkled, dirt-stained clothes as she bent down scooped up Pantalaimon, uncomfortable with the way Ratter appeared to be goggling at him. "Your face's gone all funny, Billy."

"Is it?" His cheeks felt hot and he knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he didn't feel weak or feverish.

"I'm going back to camp," she told him, starting to walk away. "You oughta, too, Billy. You look as if you seen a ghost."

"Lyra," he called after her; his tone was soft while his voice was loud enough so that she could hear him without straining. "Will you marry me?"

Poor Lyra was so startled she almost lost control of her arms and dropped Pan. She turned round half-way and looked at him, gawking. " _What_?"

"I'd be a good husband."

Her mouth was slightly agape and she blinked repeatedly. "I-I-I'm sure you would, Billy." She glanced at Ratter, who was on her human's right shoulder now. "But why…"

"It would be like a truce," Billy Costa said, looking down at his feet, unable to meet her eyes, beginning to feel embarrassed, "only better. It could be real nice, yer know, being on the same side."

"Oh, Billy, no." Lyra shook her head. She was not in love with Billy Costa and she would never marry him-they were _friends_ , and she wasn't yet fifteen.

"You won't marry me?"

"No," she said, her cheeks beginning to flame up a bit. "And it was real stupid of you to ask. It en't funny."

"You think it's a joke," Billy noted, shaking his head. "No, Lyra, it's no joke. I's really askin'."

Pantalaimon's fur stood on end. "No, no, no," Lyra closed her eyes. "I can't believe you would…"

Billy Costa's already dark eyes went even darker as they flashed with a sudden sting of wounded pride. "It's cuz I'm a Gyptian, en't it?" Ratter started making a hissing sound under her breath.

"How dare you!" Lyra raised her hand to slap him across the face.

How dare he accuse her of not liking the Gyptians? Of not liking him for being Gyptian? She loved the Gyptians, without them she didn't know where she would be. And now this…this…stupid, stupid boy who pulled marriage proposals out of thin air, had the blasted nerve to imply that she-Lyra, friend of the Gyptians-would ever be so shallow as to look down on them.

He grabbed her wrist before her hand made contact with his face. He held it firmly, not with meanness, but with a tight enough grasp so that she couldn't strike him.

"Yous got some nerve," he told her flat-out. "You always were thinkn' you were better than me cuz you was raised at Jordan and I was just raised travelin' on boats en all. And then you expect me to believe you ain't refusing to marry me because you think I'm not good enough for you? You think I'm stupid?"

"Yes, Billy, I do," Lyra snapped, making a motion in which she threatened to kick him in the shins if he didn't release her wrist at once. "I think you are the very, very stupidest idiot I've ever met. You ask me to marry you without any warnin' and then you get mad when I say no! You don't even love me."

"Who says I don't?" he demanded hotly. "Who says? Don't be silly, Lyra. I do love you."

"You en't never said you love me," she insisted stubbornly.

"Course I have," he huffed, stamping his foot. "Just now I did."

It was then that Lyra realized where she had seen the new look on Billy's face before. She had seen it on Peter, much as he had tried to hide it, when Susan had first turned up at Jordan. Peter Pevensie couldn't hide his feelings, and neither, apparently, could Billy Costa-not any longer. But she couldn't imagine being married to Billy…or loving Billy…it was madness…it was insane…she didn't…she couldn't…he was…she was…they were…

"Oh, Lyra, yous angry with me, en't you?"

"Well, yes."

"See, we've _gotta_ get married."

Lyra wrinkled her nose. "Why we gotta get married for? You don't make sense."

"We fight," said Billy.

"Yeah, so?"

"And we always make it up again-or at least truce-ever since we was little."

"Yeah?"

"That's marriage, right?"

"What is?"

"Always fighting and then making it up again," Billy explained. "We's doing that so often already…wouldn't it be more convenient to just be married to each other? Much easier to fight all the time if we was married."

Strangely enough, that made some sense to Lyra's wildly misplaced practicality. "We do fight a lot."

"I don't like fightin' anyone else so much as I like arguing with you," he confessed. "And yous always bossing me around-just like a wife would nag. And you was almost raised Gyptian yourself…"

Good gracious, bloody heavens, dash it all…Lyra thought she would faint as the realization that she _did_ love Billy Costa after all hit her as hard as if she'd just run full-speed into an enormous brick wall. She hated the thought of Billy arguing and making it up again with some other girl, some nice Gyptian girl his clan picked out, all their lives long, all because she was dumb and refused him now. This was her chance. Her only chance.

"Billy, I've changed my mind," she announced. "I'd like to fight with you for ever, and I want to marry you." Exchanging a look of faint youthful insecurity with her dæmon, she added, "Not right away. You know it can't be right away, right, Billy? You en't expecting me to marry you tomorrow or nothin', I hope." She was well aware that marriage didn't come simply for the asking, although that was how they mostly seemed to start. Edmund and Lucy weren't married yet, and she knew they both wanted to be.

Billy assured her he was expecting nothing of the sort. She was even a little amazed at how he softly mentioned he would wait for her. Not only would he wait for her, he would wait for her 'as long as need be'.

"But," he faltered, "there's one thing…"

"What?"

"You could kiss me, don't you s'pose?" A hopeful, impish grin formed on his face.

Pantalaimon was on the ground again, having left his mistress's shoulders, and he and Ratter were talking in hushed tones that were detected as little more than buzz-like humming noises ringing in their humans' ears.

Lyra ignored the buzzing and grinned back at Billy.

When Lucy had informed Lyra, during that ghastly hangover for which-it must be admitted-she still had yet to sincerely repent for, that she had almost kissed Ma Costa's son while drunk, she had nearly been beside herself with overwhelming shock. Shock, and what she thought was horror. But it wasn't horror, not for Billy; she knew now it couldn't have been. Deep down, as likely as not, she had already begun to fall in love with him.

Part of her wondered, as she suspected it always would, whether or not she would have fallen in love with Billy Costa had Roger Parslow not died. Roger was her best friend, _only_ her best friend. They had been too young in the days before he was lost-died and then cremated-to be romantically attached. There was no guarantee, really, that even if she could summon Roger in front of her, grown-up and alive, still his wonderful self, she would fall in love with him and forget-or never realize-she loved Billy. But did know her own mind, change as it would-and did-without her permission, and she couldn't say for certain, either, that she wouldn't have chosen Roger. She wasn't _settling_ for Billy. There was no comparison because both boys were separate to her. Her memory, too, was muddled-patchy in some places. There were days that stood out, days she knew both young Roger and young Billy Costa were with her younger self; and yet she could not envision them standing side by side.

It was as if they belonged to different worlds; to two different Lyras. One Lyra would never grow a day older than twelve; she remained crouched in the snow by a burning corpse. That corpse wasn't there anymore, but the first Lyra was still there. The second Lyra came into existence when, as she'd told Peter when he had asked if she would be all right, she said goodbye, when she moved on. Part of her was always with Roger, part of her was the rose she had placed on his dead body. The other part of her, the part that remained whole, the only part with the chance to live on as he would have wanted her to, was not; _she_ had already said goodbye.

Now it was time to remind herself of that as she, Lyra Silvertongue, daughter of Lord Asriel, keeper of the golden alethiometer, said hello. The goodbye was over. Here was to Billy Costa, her Gyptian betrothed…and new best friend.

Lyra leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. She didn't protest when he slipped his arms around her and returned the favor…again, and again, and again.

Meanwhile, upstairs in their old room at Jordan College, Peter and Susan laid sprawled out on the top of the rumpled sheets, blankets, and comforter on the bed.

They were pretty much done, so Maugrim didn't have to stare at the wall and was, instead, resting somewhat listlessly on a long-cushioned reclining chair in the corner. His long gray tail hung close to the carpeted floor where, Doe, watching it swing back and forth, looking very tempted, crouched down in pounce-mode, utterly mesmerized.

Maugrim looked at the cat through the slits of his half-closed eyes and growled, "Don't even think about it," baring his teeth.

The cat let out a low, excessively pitiful-sounding mew and trotted back over to the other side of the room, closer to the bed, certain her beloved master who had finally returned would protect her from the threatening wolf-thing that refused to let her swat at his long, bushy tail.

Peter was paying no attention to the cat, however; and Susan only vaguely registered the animal through Maugrim's intense annoyance over the matter.

She was wearing the soft gray shift her husband had put on under his tunic earlier, resting her head on his currently bare chest. She sighed contentedly as her eyes stopped following a stay afternoon sunbeam that had broken through a small slit in the heavy curtains (and landed on irritable Maugrim's nose) and closed. Everything was so quiet and peaceful; she was so relaxed and sleepy; and all the stress of recent misunderstandings had melted away into nothing.

Suddenly, the door swung open and a familiar voice boomed, "Pevensie, what the devil are you two doing in bed in the middle of the afternoon?"

"Playing croquet," Maugrim sneered sarcastically, snapping his teeth at the intruder.

"Please tell me that's not…" Peter began, hesitant to open his eyes.

"It is," Susan moaned, already aware that it was Lord Asriel and Stelmaria.

"It is just me, or do people really like walking in right after we…"

"I've noticed a pattern myself," grumped Susan, sitting up.

"What do you want?" Peter sighed to Lord Asriel, reaching for a jerkin to cover himself with.

"Do you remember the priest from the Ruling Powers who tried to poison me in the retiring room when Lucy was twelve?" he asked them gruffly, not seeming to actually care if they truly _did_ remember or not.

"Um, no," said Peter shortly.

Susan climbed off the bed and reached for the dress she had earlier tossed haphazardly across a small wooden chair Doe had decided to sit on. "Get up, cat."

Doe let out a low, hissing noise and a pathetic parrot-like gurgle as Susan lifted her up so she could grab the dress.

"Pevensie's wife, you remember him," said Lord Asriel.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Fine, she does." Maugrim didn't have the slightest clue who Lord Asriel was talking about-and he knew Susan didn't either-but he wasn't about to argue stupidly when there was really no purpose to such mindless bickering.

"He was one of your mother's lovers, I'm fairly sure."

"Don't be disgusting," Susan told him, shaking her head in disbelief. Could he be more vulgar? Ugh, yet another reason she couldn't stand him.

"What disgusting? It's the truth."

"You don't _know_ that." She wasn't sure why she was defending her mother-in fact, she barely realized she was doing so.

"I do," insisted Lord Asriel, "she had a few of them." He himself was just the one everybody was aware of because he'd been the one who'd gotten her pregnant and suddenly had a 'niece'.

"All right, enough." Peter wrinkled his nose. "What _about_ the dashed priest?"

"Oh, nothing," yawned Stelmaria coolly, flicking her white tail calmly to one side.

"Only that he's returned," Lord Asriel added, darkly. "He's invited himself to call on the Master."


	27. What Gael Witnessed

"Gael, maybe we shouldn't be doing this…" Pattertwig fluttered nervously in the form of a red, leathery-skinned dragon roughly the size of a typical rich noblewoman's lap-dog, flapping his small but strong wings.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Gael asked, slipping out of the bedroom that had once housed twelve-year-old Lyra Belacqua and Lucy Pevensie and was now declared-by the Master-her new domain and into the hollow, nearly-soundless hallway. "I just want to have a quick look."

"Do you really think it's safe?" he asked, shifting into a firefly so that his little mistress (who had not been left with a candle when it became apparent that she had no fear of the dark and was a mite too curious to be trusted with a flame) could see better in the darkness. "I mean, really?"

"I don't know," whispered Gael, her soft tone wavering more with excitement than with genuine fear. "But I _saw_ them; I saw them clear as day."

And she _had_ , too! She had seen them.

Who they were, she couldn't say, as she didn't know; but she felt thrilled all the same.

She had been looking out of her window at the grass below silvered by the great big moon; not full, but only slightly waned from being such and still swollen with brightness. Then there had been the figures, perhaps half a dozen-give or take-all in black, hooded cloaks. She hadn't gotten a good look at their dæmons, which had gone by so quickly Pattertwig didn't have a chance to sense them properly and register if they belonged to anybody they knew. All she saw was that one of the dæmons could fly and was of a pale-grime colour that made it look like a poorly tendered, greatly tarnished pearl with wings.

"They came right into the college," Gael had whispered to her dæmon as she planned to creep out and see what was happening. "They're up to something, I know it!"

"Maybe they want to collect nuts," Pattertwig suggested innocently, too perky and flighty-natured, oftentimes, for serious conversation. "I saw a whole lot in the dishes at the high table at supper tonight."

"No," said Gael, "I think it's something political, like a raid or a secret meeting. I wish Uncle Rhince was awake and walking with us now-he's so clever, you know-I'm sure he'd be able to figure out what's happening."

"Why do we call him Uncle Rhince, anyhow?" Pattertwig asked, off-handedly. "He isn't your uncle."

"No," she admited. "Only, he _is_ just the sort of uncle I would've picked out if I had a choice. I like him. I wish he wouldn't leave us here, though. I heard the Master say we've got to _live_ here now. They'd've done better to bring Edmund here with them- _he_ wouldn't have let them leave me here, I'll bet."

"They haven't left yet, have they?" Pattertwig seemed fearful, though it was hard to tell when he was in such an unexpressive form-such as the firefly shape he was currently sporting.

"I hope not. Uncle Rhince wouldn't leave without…without saying goodbye…would he?"

Pattertwig did not answer. He didn't know. Like his human, he wanted to believe they wouldn't just be left without a single goodbye-at least from 'Uncle Rhince', if not the others-but their lives hadn't been simple and beautiful enough for him know for sure, without doubt-to be confident of his hopes.

Gael wandered a little farther. Then, she approached the dinning hall-which had ever so many more shadows now than it had had at supper, all lit up softly with oil lamps at the high table, and candles and the electric sort of lights everywhere else-and stood gawking at its blank emptiness.

In the light, it was such a powerful-looking room so as to be the masculine equivalent of 'pretty'; handsomely decorated. In darkness, at this hour, it might have been a room from a long-abandoned ghost-town, minus the dust and cobwebs, for everything here was immaculate.

If it was not for the single red-wine-crimson curtain on the far-end that had not been drawn all the way she wouldn't have been able to see even as much as the pale reflection of the silver moon on the largest wineglass in the Master's place at the high table.

The Master; she wondered if he was sleeping, and where he slept. Did he have a grand bedroom somewhere within the walls of this college? He must have, yet, just as she had discerned that Rhince's eyes had sadness in them, Gael took in the dark rings round the Master's eyes and gathered, in her childish mind and way of reasoning, that here was a man who had never fallen asleep properly.

She was about to whisper to Pattertwig and ask him if he thought the Master was sleeping or not; then came the sound of footsteps from behind her.

There was no time to think, no time to plan. Gael had no choice other than to dash into that dinning hall of shadows and hide behind a chair to avoid the figures.

At least, she thought over the sound of her franticly beating heart, I'll be able to get a closer look at them.

"I hope you're happy now," whimpered Pattertwig, knowing her thoughts.

For surely these were the same figures she had seen from her window.

In the murky silver-light she could almost make out the shapes of their cloaks-which she could hear rustling when they moved anyhow.

Pattertwig began to tremble; and Gael finally realized she was a little afraid. Not so much of the figures themselves as of getting into trouble. She hadn't been thinking of trouble when she'd left her bedroom so readily, only she couldn't _stop_ thinking of it now.

Here she was, a little girl with Gyptian blood in her veins as likely as not, a sort of permanent guest at Jordan, and wandering areas that did not concern her at what grown-ups referred to as ungodly hours. It seemed most unfair. Why shouldn't she be allowed to see what was happening? She should! But, no, she had to fear getting into trouble; or, rather, Pattertwig did, and she felt the fear through him and his constant jitteriness.

There was something very familiar, though, about the hooded figures, especially the one with the flying dæmon, only she couldn't place him (her? it?); and Pattertwig was too nervous to be of any help. In his fear he had shifted into a white moth and hidden himself in the folds of her pale-coloured nightgown.

In the end they decided to hide in the retiring room. Really, they couldn't have chosen a worse place.

No sooner had they entered the room breathlessly, glad enough to have crept in unnoticed by the cloaked figures, and shut the doors behind them, than they saw the knob beginning to turn.

"Oh no!" Pattertwig, now a sparrow, beat his wings in terror. "Quick, look! The wardrobe…over there!"

There seemed to be no other way out, so Gael obeyed her fretful dæmon and climbed into the wardrobe, leaving it ever so slightly open so that she could breath and perhaps still see what the figures would do once they got into the room.

To her surprise, it wasn't a hooded figure that appeared. Instead, it was Peter Pevensie, that nerve-wracking man with no dæmon, who she-unlike most children-was having a hard time warming to. It was just too hard to deal with someone who might as well have been missing a limb for all the shuddering the sight of him caused her.

Squinting and pressing her face closer to the opening she'd allowed herself in the wardrobe, Gael noticed something. Peter seemed to have a dæmon after all; there was a black-and-white cat in the crook of one of his arms. For a moment she almost relaxed, marveling over the miracle, until it became apparent-to Pattertwig, at least-that it was just an ordinary cat, nothing more and nothing less. Very like, she thought, a man with a wooden leg, arm, or eye. Unsettling, but not as bad as seeing the bloody stump itself.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Peter said to himself, setting the cat-who had begun to yowl and squirm-down on the ground and walking over to the table in the middle of the room.

"Look, Pattertwig," whispered Gael, taking care to speak softly enough so that Peter wouldn't hear and learn that she was hiding there. "Do you see that decanter on the table? I think he's going to do something to it."

"We shouldn't have come," moaned Pattertwig. "I wish we hadn't!"

"Shh!" Gael reprimanded her flighty dæmon and put her finger to her lips. "He'll hear us. And I want to see what's happening, alright?"

"I'm scared," was all the little sparrow at her side would reply.

"I know," she said, "but be scared _quietly_ ; you got to, or we'll get caught."

Looking both ways and over his shoulders, Peter sighed heavily and took a piece of card-paper out of his sleeve; the master had given it to him earlier and explained what he must do, for the good of all the worlds-and for their own safety as well.

The doorknob turned again and Peter jumped, knocked over a chair with a _thud_ somewhat muffled by the thick carpet underfoot, and spun around, nearly dropping the card-paper.

One of the cloaked figures appeared in the doorway.

It was the one with the flying dæmon that Gael thought she recognized. He (for it was a he, after all) pulled back his hood and Peter's tightly clenched jaw muscles relaxed.

"Hang it all, Ed!" he hissed. "Are you _trying_ to give me the fright of my life?"

"Sorry," said the figure-Edmund-stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind himself. "You're early."

"Not really." Peter shrugged his shoulders. "I'm very uncomfortable about this, Edmund, whatever the Master says."

"If he lives," said Edmund calmly, stretching out his wrist so that Ella-the flying dæmon who had disguised herself with dust and ashes to appear less brightly-feathered in the moonlight-could land there, "you know what will happen. It's too dangerous. That's what the alethiometer said…he'll…he'll do horrible things if he is given the chance…he might even harm Lucy and Lyra!"

"That doesn't mean I have to like the idea of cold-blooded murder." Peter shook his head. "Whether I like the man or not isn't the point." He would do anything for Lucy's-and Lyra's-safety, even this, but he still felt uneasy. It was one thing to have been shooting at captors as they escaped from Svalbard, one thing to have fought Miraz in honourable single combat, this was quite another. And for the hundredth time, he wished the Master had chosen a different man for the job or else done it himself.

"Yes, well we can ponder over that later," said Edmund hastily. "They'll be here any minute. If you're going to do it, do it now."

Peter nodded and removed the stopper from the decanter. His fingers fumbling, he opened the card-paper and poured, into the wine, a thin stream of powder.

"You didn't come alone?" Peter double-checked, looking over his right shoulder at his brother-in-law as he hastily crumbed up the now empty card-paper and stuffed it into his doublet pocket.

"No," said Edmund. "Some of the Gyptians came-they're hiding in the dinning hall. Also, Lucy and Lyra refused to stay behind."

"I'm not surprised," said Peter, a tad darkly, wishing they would do something about their girlish curiosity and fierce loyalty and stay where it was safest for once.

The doorknob turned again. This time, it was Edmund who jumped and looked wary, with widened eyes; Ella flew to the top of the wardrobe and perched there.

"Peter, quick, you have to hide." Edmund flung the wardrobe door open and urged his brother-in-law to get in. "It might be…"

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me," said Edmund hurriedly, knowing the door would be open in a manner of seconds.

You've done this before, hiding someone else and not thinking about yourself, Peter thought, obeying Edmund for urgency's sake but feeling rotten for doing so, and of course it worked out so well the last time…you getting dragged off to prison…

Inside the wardrobe, Gael was petrified and Pattertwig was nearly hyperventilating. The man with no dæmon was in the wardrobe with her now, little more than an arm's length away! He hadn't noticed her yet, but how long would that last? She'd had to pull back, squeezing her small body in-between the hanging scholars' gowns and robes, and now she couldn't see what was happening. Peter could, probably, but not her-not without giving herself away.

She could still hear, however. And what she heard was awful. A man with a voice she didn't like (the priest) was demanding to know who the hooded person in the room was. Oh, if he _dared_ hurt Edmund…Gael felt as though she would kill him if he tried it…tiny thing that she was…she wouldn't let him get away with that.

But, no, there didn't seem any danger of that after all; the Master was saying that Edmund was a high-ranking scholar with a facial deformity, that he had been invited into the retiring room personally, so the priest had 'no reason to worry'. Gael wondered if college Masters were allowed to lie. She hadn't taken the kindly old man who ran Jordan for a liar…but, then, if it was to help protect Edmund, she would never hold that against him, even if she had been taught it was wicked to lie. There seemed to be so much wickedness in so many different forms recently. It was hard to chose a side. But she decided early on to take the part of her alethiometrist friend and no other.

Yet, as the priest spoke about heresy, and there came the sound of the stopper being pulled out of the decanter, Gael half-wanted to cry out, "No! don't! It's poison!" She supposed she could relate to the dæmonless man after all; Peter hadn't wanted to kill in cold blood, and she didn't want to hear someone dying that way. She wished she'd listened to Pattertwig and not come. This was too frightening.

Soundlessly, the priest was lifting the glass to his lips…There was the muffled _thud_ of his body falling over onto the carpet. If he wasn't dead yet, he soon would be. Behind his hood, Edmund's face recoiled; Ella looked away from the priest's body, tucking her face behind a wing.

Feeling lightheaded, Gael retched, then fainted. Peter caught her and lost his footing; and they both tumbled out of the wardrobe, landing at the Master's feet.

When she came back into consciousness again, they sat her down and explained what she had witnessed. They didn't want to, not really. Explaining a political murder to a young child wasn't their idea of a good time, nor did it give any of them a warm, safe feeling, doing so. But there seemed to be no other way out of it. Gael would be more traumatized in the long-run if they didn't explain everything now.

Rhince, who appeared in the retiring room shortly afterwards, scolded her being where she wasn't supposed to and even raised his hand to smack her, but he couldn't bring himself to go through with it-or even to make his scolding sound less half hearted and more scathing. In an odd kind of way, this made Edmund feel a little better, knowing that 'Uncle Rhince' was unlikely to treat Gael quite as harshly as Lord Asriel had often coldly regarded Lyra.

They decided it would be best to have Edmund do most of the explaining, since Gael was still rather scared of Peter and uncertain as to everybody else.

As simply as he could, Edmund told her that after Gyptian spies brought back the news of the priest with the Ruling Powers' crest on his tunic coming to Jordan and demanding an audience with the Master, he, Lyra, and Lucy had all consulted their alethiometers. In the end, it led them all to one conclusion; they had to get rid of the priest. If he lived, they would never succeed and perhaps the Ruling Powers would go on-maybe for ever-and even extend into other worlds, corrupting a potentially endless muli-verse. The fate of all the worlds had depended on getting rid of him.

They didn't understand, not completely, and they hadn't wanted to kill him, or send word to the Master as to what the alethiometer had told them, but they'd had no choice. Although they didn't like the priest and thought him a pest, a prissy annoying fellow, more than a threat, the alethiometer showed that he would grow more dangerous.

Edmund had struggled, vainly, to find another meaning for the symbols, something easier.

Finally, looking at Lucy, knowing she had seen the same thing by instinct, that there was no other way, he had nodded, swallowed hard, and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, blinking away anxious tears.

True, the priest had tried to poison Lord Asriel some years ago, but doing the same back to him didn't make them any better. It was all political.

Gael listened to all this holding Pattertwig in his squirrel form in her arms as a girl in a world without visible dæmons might clutch a teddy bear to her chest, her face gone very white. Her eyes, however, did not pop or widen, she nodded as surely and grimly as Edmund had earlier, not liking but understanding anyway.

She seemed so calm and reserved, yet intense, over the matter that Edmund wondered, rather nervously, if she would, no matter what he said to dissuade her and encourage her to find her own path in life, become an alethiometrist when she grew up.


	28. Ramandu's Daughter tells Iorek's story

"Serafina Pekkala en't here, Your Ladyship." The Gyptian man with the crane dæmon bowed to Ramandu's daughter, who stood at the out-skirts of the Gyptian camps near Jordan College. "In fact, no disrespect, Miss, but I was rather a hoping you could tell your aunt to come some time, if it weren't no inconvenience. Farder Coram…he ain't himself lately…I think he's a pining for her, to tell you the truth."

Ramandu's daughter sighed. "I'm sorry to hear that, truly I am." She smiled wanly. "But I haven't come to see Serafina or Farder Coram. This time, I must speak with the alethiometrist, Edmund Belacqua. It is quite urgent, I'd not come otherwise. You see, my good Gyptian, there's something he must decide, and he must come to know of it."

"I think," said the Gyptian man, exchanging a somewhat puzzled glance with his crane, "that Alethiometrist Belacqua's just returned from Jordan not one hour ago. He 'ad some business there, I's told. I'll see if he can come here to speak with you."

"No," she stopped him, "it is too dangerous for an alethiometrist to come out of a protected area, Gyptian spies or no. I must go with you to his tent; I will speak with him there."

"Alright." The Gyptian nodded agreeably. "Follow me, then."

The Gyptian camp was quieter than usual, Ramandu's daughter noticed. From above, looking down, Gyptian camps often seemed merry, cheerful places of lit bonfires and stories of the sea told in thick accents; sometimes there was even dancing. Now, in this time of high political tension, even the Gyptians, out-casts, had become somber. Fires were put out as soon as everyone had eaten and was warm enough to venture back through the chill air to their tents.

A few of the young men hung about; some of them smoked, others talked gruffly amongst themselves. She noticed Lord Asriel and Stelmaria standing by a snuffed-out fire, brooding, looking like their usual, fierce, unapproachable selves.

As she came nearer, Ramandu's daughter nodded at them and, out of respect, Lord Asriel bowed once very quickly.

"The alethiometrist's tent is over here," the Gyptian directed her, gesturing at a generous-sized tent of midnight blue cloth laced with faded gold thread and frayed black fringes. "Will you be announ'sin your presence yourself, Lady? I may be needing to return to my post."

"Yes, I can take it from here," she assured him. "Thank you."

"twas nothin', Your Ladyship." He bowed before turning to leave; the crane-dæmon sort of bobbed.

Lifting up the edge of the tent's opening gingerly, Ramandu's daughter called, "Belacqua?"

"Yes?"

"It's Serafina Pekkala's niece," she said softly. "I need to speak with you."

"Fine, come in."

Stepping inside, she saw that Alethiometrist Belacqua was standing, rising up from his place and onto his feet, to greet her as was proper; but he looked weary.

"Oh," said Ramandu's daughter hastily, her eyes flickering sympathetically, "sit down, I'll join you. It'll take more than a moment; we don't have to stand, unless you would prefer it."

Ella clanked her beak as her master eased back down onto the cushions he'd been sitting on before the star's arrival. He had no wish to stand if Ramandu's daughter had no intention of insisting upon it.

"What is it?" he asked, after a pause.

"You know about Iorek Byrnison, don't you?"

Edmund sighed. "Only that he was prince of Svalbard once, and that he lost everything."

"Learn that from an alethiometer, did you?"

He shrugged.

"Do you have one with you?"

"Yes." He was dead-tired, thus his reason for being so monosyllabic. It had been a long night, what with all he'd had to do and then explaining his actions-and those of the others-to Gael; and now, entertaining important company.

"Let me see you read it."

Ella let out a frustrated whistle, showcasing her master's weary apprehension.

"If you're going to ask me the name of the Gyptian who was once your lover, I don't need the alethiometer for that."

Her bright, starry eyes darkened and narrowed, the slightest traces of a furrow appearing on her fair brow. "Funny," she replied, not as if she actually did think it all that funny in the least.

"I'm sorry," said the alethiometrist.

She forgave him. "It's all right. Now could I please see you read the alethiometer?"

He nodded and stood up, moving a thick, boiled-wool blanket which stood over a hole he'd dug in the middle of the tent earlier. From the hole he produced a bunch of scrap-cloth; peeling it back, he revealed the alethiometer.

"What should I ask it?"

The star thought for a moment before replying, "Ask it where Iorek Byrnison is right now."

Edmund opened the alethiometer and framed his question; pointing to-he hoped-the correct symbols. He waited for the needle to swing round and tell him the answer. This wasn't easy for him, nor smooth as it would have been for Lyra or Lucy, he had both to keep his head clear and to have it focused on the question at the same time.

Ramandu's daughter watched with a polite interest that clearly held precious little, if any, fascination. He figured, reflecting on the matter later, that she had probably, having lived for such a long time, seen an alethiometrist read a truth measure before-maybe even many times before.

"Not far from Trollesund," said Edmund, when he was as close to certain as he could be that he'd gotten it right. "It keeps pointing to another symbol every other time it goes around; I think it means that Lee Scoresby is still in Trollesund as well, or at least near it."

"That's right." She smiled faintly. "Now, Edmund," she said, addressing him by his name instead of his title or adopted surname, "there is something you have to know. Exactly what happened to Iorek; more than just what you could read and interpret. It ' _runs deeper than that'_. You don't realize it, but it may be closer to home than you ever imagined."

Alethiometrist Belacqua felt a shiver run up his spine, cold and quick, and wondered why he suddenly felt slightly vertigo, though he wasn't up high and had never been afraid of heights to begin with.

"Once," Ramandu's daughter began, taking care to speak-for which Edmund would later find himself grateful-like she was telling something as simple and unconnected to reality as a fairytale, not because it wasn't true, but, rather, for the sake of not overwhelming the alethiometrist with what it all meant, "Iorek, Crown Prince of the _panserbjørne_ , loved a she-bear, Iseult Saoirse, and married her. Whether she loved him in return, no one knows, bears are not terribly affectionate by nature-in love or not-and humans-and even witches or stars-are capable of misunderstanding them and their motives, though their recent humanizing of the court has made this proceeding statement less true as of late.

"Not long after their union, Iseult became, perhaps, discontented, and began to see a princeling bear, a cousin of Iorek's, and a cub resulted."

"Wait," Edmund interjected, sort of quietly. "The cousin-was it Ragnar Sturlusson?"

"No, it was Iofur Raknison; he was a cousin as well, but lower-ranking, and younger, than the usurper Ragnar. Although, it might as well have been Ragnar since Iofur was nothing more than a dense follower of Rangar's and would have jumped off an ice cliff if his cousin on that side told him it would befit him in some way."

"I see," he mused grimly.

"Anyway, the cub was born favoring, not Iorek but Iofur." Ramandu's daughter paused for a moment, wondering if she was doing the right thing by letting that sink in, or if she should have just kept going at a quicker pace and let the whole story wash over him later. "And so the she-bear Iseult pretended that the cub had died, while in reality she merely handed it over to Iofur's keeping, wanting nothing more to do with the matter, only to wipe her paws clean of the whole affair."

Ella shifted uncomfortably and Edmund felt his face twisting. This reminded him of something; something he didn't want to be reminded of.

"Iorek found out, and he decided to go and…" Ramandu's daughter's voice cracked and she fought the urge to bite her lower lip. "And he wasn't in his right mind, going to see Iofur…he was angry…I don't think he would have meant any harm to an innocent cub, not even back then when he was a much more headstrong bear than he is now, humbled by all the misfortune that has befallen him…but at the time he was in a frightful rage, he felt betrayed, and he wasn't reared to be human; he was a bear, a beast. He did what was natural. He went to defend Iseult's honour as well as his own claim to her as much as for his other reasons."

Edmund felt himself pulling his body further and further back against the cushions and the cloth-wall of the tent. This story was getting way too personal. Everything in it was beginning to remind him of the things he'd meant to erase when he changed his life, his occupation, and his surname. By becoming Edmund Belacqua, he meant to escape Edmund Coulter. But Edmund Coulter loved to come back and haunt him, even from beyond the grave, appearing in stories, however distantly told, and in the past of creatures he considered his friends. How could Iorek be like his father; and what did this mean? Why was Ramandu's daughter telling him all this _now_? He wasn't sure he wanted to hear another word, but he understood that Ramandu's daughter was a determined star and would not let him off easy. She would tell him, and she would explain why, he was sure, when the time was right; but, now, he must listen, painful or not.

"Iofur defended his cub, as could only be expected, and I think Iorek would have consented to there being an end to it if it had not been for his stubborn pride and Iofur's stupidity."

"How do you mean?" Edmund rubbed the back of one of his hands against Ella's left wing out of familiarity, or else because he desired comfort.

"They fought. But armoured bears have a sort of procedure: unless the fight is stated for political reasons and is approved by the king, they do not battle to death. They stop when it becomes clear which is the strongest. Iorek was stronger than Iofur, but Iofur wouldn't yield. He acted slow-wittedly and wouldn't perform the signs of surrender, of leaving Iseult to him from then on."

So this story ended differently from that of Edmund Coulter the first. Well, obviously, since Iorek was still alive and Edmund had died leaving Mrs. Coulter a prosperous widow. All the same, the notion of even the slightest difference was strangely reassuring, just as the way Ramandu's daughter told the story was not too close for comfort.

"Iorek ended up killing Iofur, didn't he?" Ella cawed, almost mournfully.

The star nodded, something like sadness for the bear clouding her light face momentarily.

"What happened?" Edmund asked.

She didn't answer.

"What happened?" He repeated himself.

"I think you know the answer to that," she said; "the old king died within the same hour as Iofur."

"And Ragnar challenged Iorek's rights…they dueled, and Iorek was sent away, banished for ever?"

"Yes. Some even think Ragnar _told_ poor Iofur not to give in if Iorek came to him, there are even claims that he drugged him to make him slower than usual."

"He seems as rotten as any human," said Edmund, pensively, and a little hotly as well. "It was this usurper who introduced tricks to the court. Tricking Iofur, then the king, and even-without touching him directly, as he was too cowardly before it came to the combat itself-Iorek. Iorek might be the only bear prince who remembers that he is a bear and not a man with fur!"

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was that rotten current so-called king who encouraged Iseult to betray Iorek in the first place; she doesn't strike me as particularly non-humanized bear herself. I think they were all vulnerable and tainted," added Ella.

"I think the same," Ramandu's daughter admited.

"Can I ask you something?" Edmund clenched his fists and breathed deeply.

"Yes, of course."

"Why did you come all this way? Why are you telling me this?"

"Don't you understand?" She looked stern all of a sudden. "You've said it yourself, Belacqua! The bear king acts like a human, and he's taken bribes. He'll support the Ruling Powers as long as it suits him. And if they have any sense they'll see to it that it always _will_."

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" After all this time calmly handling his duty as an alethiometrist, Edmund finally hit the roof and blew up in a fit of frustrated rage. "I've been considered a heretic, lived in places I wish I had never even seen out of the corner of my eye-much less stayed in (made _Lucy_ stay in, as she wouldn't leave me and I wouldn't abandon her), and I've been thrown in prison. I'm against the Ruling Powers with all I have! What am I supposed to do about a bear king? So what if he always supports the Ruling Powers? It's not my problem!"

She watched him rage and, once, very quickly, slam his hand against the side of the tent. Edmund's anger seemed to have little or no effect on her. If he was upset, he was upset. There was no point in her becoming upset, too. At least it meant he was starting to understand; there was more reason for her to be upset with him for not getting what she was trying to tell him than there was when he was angered as the frustrating realizations dawned on him.

It took a few moments, but after a bit the alethiometrist's reddened face returned to its normal colour and his eyes lightened, humbled by her serenity. It was hard to stay worked up when the person sitting across from you was calmer than the sea after a storm.

Then, Ramandu's daughter said, "If Iorek were king, he would never work with the Ruling Powers, or allow the bears to be tricked."

Edmund swallowed hard. "You want me- _expect_ me-to put Iorek back on the throne of Svalbard?"

"Yes, that's it." She smiled blithely. "That's it exactly. I knew you were smart enough to figure it out."

"Supposing I don't?" he wanted to know. "What if I just went on with fighting the Ruling Powers the way I am already?"

"You _might_ succeed anyway," she said. "Or you might fail when the ice bears come up against you. But if you liked the conditions in Svalbard's prison, far be it for me to stop you from ending up there again."

"It isn't just about me, is it?"

"No, it's about the part you play in the solution to the problem."

"I have to do this…"

"That's right."

He exchanged a defeated glance with his dæmon.

"It's getting close to dawn," Ramandu's daughter told him. "I must go now before the darkest part of the night is wasted and someone other than the Gyptians sees me leave."

"Wait a second." Edmund reached out and grabbed her arm. "How am I supposed to get the throne back for Iorek?"

"Trick the usurper, of course. Make it seem like you're giving him what he wants and Iorek returning is his idea; I can't give you any further advice beyond that. The rest is up to you."

He let go of her arm. "Goodbye, then."

"Don't look so grave." Ramandu's daughter tried to cheer him before leaving. "I'm sure it will come out all right in the end. Besides, you're not alone and you don't have to do it all by yourself."

"Will you come with me?" He wasn't sure why he asked that, only it seemed somewhat easier to have a star, a powerful being, as a guardian in Svalbard, to assist him in getting rid of King Ragnar, than to go up there with a group of ordinary humans and hope for the best outcome.

"Alethiometrist Belacqua," she said, almost-he thought-laughing, "I don't think _I'm_ the one you want to take with you on this venture. Someone else might be of greater value."

"Who?"

"You'll figure it out."

"Yes, and even more quickly if you _tell_ me," he replied, bordering on sarcasm.

"Goodbye, Belacqua."

He sighed. "All right, goodbye again."

"You may escort me out of the tent."

From the way she spoke, he knew it was an order, not a request, nicely as it was worded; and he followed her out.

Standing not far off, were Caspian, Lucy, and Lyra, all having heard that Ramandu's daughter was there.

Looking each of them in the face, but mostly speaking to Edmund still, she said, "Your future awaits you." Her eyes shifted away from Edmund and Lucy and, with greater reluctance, Caspian, then landed on Lyra as if-for a spilt second-she was attempting to remind them all of something to do with a matter concerning the Silvertongue girl.

Then, in a beam of bluish-white light, shooting up into the sky, she was gone.

"Lucy," said Edmund, once the star had vanished. "Can I speak with you in my tent for a bit?"

"I will wait outside to escort you back when you're ready to return to your own tent, Lucy," Caspian told her, a bit priggishly.

Lyra rolled her eyes. "No, I think not."

"What do you mean, 'you think not'?"

"I think you oughta give 'em some privacy," she said flat-out, never one to fear offending or being blunt. "Edmund ain't got two broken legs or nothin'; he can walk back with her himself. You just want more news of Ramandu's daughter and what she was saying to Ed. Lucy'll be fine, and you know it."

Caspian gave in and started back for his own tent for the time being, Lyra right behind him, looking over her shoulder at her half brother who mouthed, "Thanks."

An hour later, Lucy was sprawled across the cushions in Edmund's tent, on her stomach, thumbing through the book he'd taken from Svalbard (which he kept hidden in the same hole as his alethiometer), while Edmund himself laid flat on his back, staring up at the cloth-ceiling.

He had already explained everything to Lucy, and now he was trying to think of a plan, only his mind felt so blank. Every plan he could even half-consider seemed faulty and lame. How could he fight against an armoured bear? How was he going to get Iorek back on the throne? This was insanity; this was too much!

Reepicheep tried to say things that would be uplifting, mostly to Ella but once or twice to Edmund directly as well, but now even he was quiet and lost in thought along with his mistress.

"Lu," Edmund mused, "what do you think Ragnar really wants? Aside from being human, I mean?"

"A dæmon?" Lucy offered, turning a page before looking up at him over her shoulder.

"That might as well fall under the same category as being a human," mumbled Edmund. "I couldn't give him that; and he'd never believe me if I promised to, anyhow."

"Mmm," Lucy agreed, absently, moving so that she was on her back, too, and taking one of Edmund's hands in hers as she leaned her head on one of his shoulders.

"He has no reason to trust me," he went on, pausing to twist his neck and lightly kiss Lucy's forehead. "I wonder if he would listen to me even if my mother was alive and told him to-he was very fond of her."

"He was?" Reepicheep asked, speaking to Edmund, yet looking at Ella when he said it.

The owl-dæmon nodded. "Very," Edmund confirmed. "I think that's the main reason he chose to work with the Ruling Powers in the first place. He thought it would please her and he was too human-like by that point to see how stupid trusting her was."

"I'm surprised Mrs. Coulter didn't just tell him she would give him a dæmon somehow," Lucy commented.

Edmund jumped, nearly knocking her off of his shoulder by accident. "What did you say?"

She blinked, confused. "I said I was surprised your mother didn't say…"

"No, _she_ didn't…But I could…" A grin of hope began to form on his face. "Sort of like Lyra did to Miraz, when she convinced him to fight Peter. Thanks to that, Caspian is back in rank. We could do the same with Iorek, Lu!"

"But you just said he wouldn't believe you," Lucy reminded him innocently.

"No," Edmund said, his grin wider now. "He wouldn't believe _me_ , not in thirteen hundred years, he wouldn't…but I think I know somebody he just might."


	29. The Alethiometrist's Plan

"No, absolutely not," said Susan, turning away from Edmund and glancing into the mirror, working a brush through her hair. "I'm not doing that."

"But, Susan, you have to," he insisted, reaching over, grabbing her arm, and spinning her back around so that she faced him again.

Maugrim's lips curled up into a half-sneer, half-snarl, and he looked threateningly at Ella, who was currently perched on one of the bedposts on the other side of the room.

"Oh, come on," grunted the wolf-dæmon, regaining composure and swallowing back the dozen or so sarcastic things he was aching to say, willing himself to be reasonable, even kindly, "this isn't your war. What happens on the throne of Svalbard is nothing to do with us."

"We should listen to him." Susan tilted her head, gesturing in her dæmon's direction.

"Don't you understand?" Edmund said, not paying Maugrim any mind. "You could convince Ragnar to give Iorek a chance at gaining back the throne. We would cut off one of the Ruling Power's sources completely! If Iorek were king, he would never side with them or take their bribes."

Susan put down the hairbrush noisily on the stand beside the mirror and walked over to the door leading into the hallway. Sticking her head out, she called, "Peter, come in here! Edmund's drunk!"

"I am not!" her brother hissed, grabbing her arm again, squeezing a little harder this time. "And I'll thank you not to announce my presence here to the entire college."

She rolled her eyes. "Edmund, don't be absurd; most of the scholars are either at their lessons or in the library two floors down studying. Aside from Peter, and perhaps the Master, we're the only two in this part of the college at this hour." Wrenching herself free from him, she huffily added, "Honestly, Ed! You're in a queer mood today."

"Susan, will you at least hear me out?"

"Look," she said, trying-somewhat vainly-to force the terseness out of her voice, "you're my brother and I love you; but this plan of yours! Why would the king of Svalbard listen to me? He doesn't even know me."

"He liked our mother; you're her only daughter. Tell him that and see if he doesn't listen."

Susan looked utterly disgusted. "I am _nothing_ like Mother, and you know that."

"Yes," said Edmund, with surprising patience. "But Ragnar doesn't."

"Susan, were you calling me?" Peter entered the room, a little breathlessly, thinking there might be some emergency.

"Edmund has the most absurd idea," she announced.

Maugrim snorted. "I still think he's drunk."

Ella swooped down over the wolf's head, making him duck. Doe, on a chair, watching this, let out a pitiful cry, mostly because she was cranky at being woken up by the scary 'animals' and their quarrel.

"Peter, tell her this could work!" Edmund begged, looking over at his brother-in-law pleadingly.

"What is it?" Peter wanted to know, frowning in confusion.

"He wants me to pretend," explained Susan in a breathless, appalled tone of voice, "that I'm an alethiometrist-which is only the start of what's faulty here, as I know nothing whatever about alethiometristing."

"Erm, it's _alethiometry_ ," Edmund cough-corrected her.

She ignored him and went on, "And he wants me to claim to the king of Svalbard that I've preformed experiments with Dust and can give him a dæmon if he beats Iorek Byrnison in single combat! Edmund is mad, Peter, out of his head!"

"Peter," Edmund protested, desperately, "I can tell her everything she needs to know about being an alethiometrist, enough to convince King Ragnar she's genuine-"

"But she's _not_ ," growled Maugrim, cutting in.

"I even have a sort of idea that we can convince him either Lucy or Lyra is a dæmon, just as Lyra convinced Miraz. All we would have to do is find some way of hiding either Reep or Pan. Pantalaimon might be easier, if we can disguise him as part of Lyra's fur coat or something…I've thought and thought about this!"

"I think this is all moonshine," declared Susan, tossing her head back primly. "It's a foolish plan to accomplish something just as foolish. I'm sorry about Iorek, really I am, I've nothing against him; but if you think I'm going to endanger myself and others, Edmund," –here she paused and gave her brother a hard glare; "you're dead wrong."

Peter, less sure, less adamant, but just as cautious, said, "Ed, it does sound risky. Susan's right, if Ragnar won and she couldn't give him what she promised, there's no telling what he would do to her."

"Mother never gave him _anything_ she promised him," he pointed out.

"So Mrs. Coulter kept the bear on his toes," sighed Peter; "that won't help Susan if she can't prove herself to him…no, it's out of our hands, I'm sorry."

"You don't understand, the bears side with the Ruling Powers, they might destroy us. Think about Lucy and Lyra, Pete, really _think_ about them; if the Ruling Powers tell Ragnar they want them killed…he'd do it in a heartbeat, or send someone to do it, more likely. This is a political matter, just like with the priest. There may be some cold blood involved, but it's something we _have_ to do. Susan is the only one of us who there's any chance of him listening to."

Peter's face drained of colour entirely, all except for his cheeks, which speedily flushed. He looked as if someone had reached over and smacked him hard across the face, dumped a bucket of cold water over his head, then left him out in the damp air for an hour. He simply couldn't abide the thought of Lucy and Lyra coming to harm; it was too painful.

"If I fail…" began Susan.

"You'll learn from the best, Su," Edmund said, forcing a proud smile. "I can teach you everything you need to know about pretending to read the alethiometer. I can tell you what to say; it would be like play-acting, nothing more."

"Susan, I think we should-maybe…" Peter was beginning to give in, and fast.

"Peter, please!"

"Edmund would do it," he pointed out, a mite too harshly. "If Ed had any chance of being listened to, he'd do it. He would put Iorek back on the throne and save us. You're our only chance."

Maugrim gritted his teeth. "This will not end well, mark my words."

Susan sighed, dejectedly. "If you will have it so, Peter-and you, too, Edmund-let's take the adventure that will befall us. I wish I could say, as far as I can be concerned, I wash my hands clean of the effect this venture will surely bring about, but I cannot. We're in this together."

"You'll do it," her brother double checked; "you will go to Svalbard and speak to Ragnar?"

"Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper now, cracking a little from fear, "I'll do it."

Unexpectedly, but with the most tender endearment, Edmund threw his arms around his elder sister, blinking away tears she only just then realized he'd been fighting. "Oh, thank you, Susan!"

Pulling away from her brother's embrace, she added, "But do let's think this all the way through. First up: what about our fake dæmon? Do we use Lyra or Lucy?"

"Lyra has already pretended to be a dæmon once," said Peter, secretly feeling ashamed because he knew deep down that he was volunteering Lyra right off mainly to keep Lucy out of danger if he could, and he knew it was his old favoritism pricking at him rather selfishly when he ought to be looking out for the common good of everybody involved. "She knows how," he added lamely. "And there's what Edmund was just saying about Pan; he's just the right colour to slink between the collar of a pale fur coat and not be noticed."

"Supposing Ragnar has met Lord Asriel before," Maugrim said suddenly.

Peter and Edmund and Ella turned to stare at the wolf uncomprehendingly; they didn't see how Lord Asriel, and whether or not he and the usurper of Svalbard had met previously, had anything to do with what they were planning.

"No, it's no good," said Susan, understanding. "Maugrim's right, don't you see? If Ragnar's met Asriel, he may recognize the man's features in Lyra and there goes any hope for pretending she's a dæmon. I don't think Miraz met-or would remember, even if he did-Lord Asriel; so Lyra was more secure in that instance. But Ragnar might recognize her father's features in her and see our bluff."

"Oh, don't be silly," Peter retorted. "That's going a bit far. I don't see…"

"Lyra does look a bit like Lord Asriel," said Edmund, miserable, not having thought of that before. "That's right, Su." That was why, after all, Mrs. Coulter had so readily given up her younger daughter; if she could have passed it for the child of herself and Edmund Coulter, what harm would there have been in keeping the infant?

"We'll have to use Lucy, then," Susan said practically.

Peter winced. "What's the point of that? She's Lord Asriel's daughter, too. We might use, if Rhince would allow it, Gael."

"Not Gael," said Edmund darkly, lowering his brow in a 'end of discussion' kind of way. "Rhince would never agree to it; and neither would I. She's too young. She is living at the college for protection. She's no threat to anyone, and there's no reason to drag her into this."

Susan reached for her husband's hand and squeezed it. "I know it's hard for you, Peter, but it must be Lucy-just as it has to be me who speaks to Ragnar in the first place. It's the only way."

"She looks," Edmund grimly admited, "much less like Lord Asriel than her half sister does. Farder Coram says she takes after her mother's side."

It was true, actually. In Lyra, the sharp features of Lord Asriel were present so that one knew they were related almost instantly; they were not humbled in Lyra, nor kindlier, exactly, but there was something more likeable about them on her-yet, all the same, it was clear where she had gotten them from. Whereas, in Lucy, it was different; if she bore any resemblance at all to Lord Asriel, it wasn't obvious and had to be looked for and pinned down after much forethought.

"What about Reepicheep?" Peter asked, lifting Doe off of a chair, sitting down, then placing her in his lap, stroking her ears pensively. "Ragnar can't see that she has a dæmon."

"It's a shame Reep can't shift anymore," Ella put in.

"He doesn't need to, not really. If we found some sort of bag with a strap Lucy could wear over her coat and have Reepicheep curl up in there as tight as possible…" Edmund suggested.

Peter stopped petting the cat and looked up at his brother-in-law incredulously. "How do you expect him to breathe? I won't have Lucy hurt through her dæmon during all this."

"No worries there," Edmund assured him, glancing back at him with an explanatory facial expression; Ella twisted her beak. "You don't know what it's really like to have a dæmon. If Reep feels cramped or uncomfortable, so will Lucy. If he was the sort who took to being claustrophobic easily, I would worry then because she would start randomly hyperventilating from sensing his fear. But breathing itself shouldn't be a problem in the least; Reep can breathe through Lucy if he concentrates, which is just as well because in that case he's less likely to make any noises and give himself away."

"But who's dæmon will we say Lucy is?" Susan wondered aloud.

"Iorek's," said Edmund, firmly and without hesitation. "Definitely use that. What Lyra did, saying she was Peter's dæmon, was just about right. She made it sound as if someone Miraz considered a nobody had received a privilege denied to him. King Ragnar must hate Iorek, as he's the real king. Let him think Susan went ahead and experimented on Iorek because he was the only bear not on Svalbard, but that, really, she would have preferred to give Lucy to him instead." He turned to his sister. "Flattery, Su, you'll have to give him as much flattery as he swallows. Say you admire him."

"We think he's horrid," Maugrim barked.

"Well, don't let him know that or we're done for." Edmund rolled his eyes.

"You mean I'm to act as if I were my mother's daughter?" Susan was, evidentially, sickened by the very idea, and scrunched up her nose in disgust.

"As much like her as possible," her brother huffed impatiently. "We've established this already!"

"What if Ragnar, upon Susan announcing that Lucy is the dæmon of his hated enemy, decides to listen no further and attempts to kill her at once to rid himself of Iorek?" Peter shuddered at the thought of his baby sister being torn to pieces by an enormous ice bear.

"Susan will have to step in and shout it if need arises," Edmund said fiercely. "And if that doesn't work, I'll fling myself in front of Lucy and have the bear king kill her only over my dead body."

* * *

An hour later, their plans were all but set in stone.

"We're in this together; all three of us, and Lucy." Peter swallowed the lump forming in his throat and suppressed an extra shudder. "Let's all shake hands and finalize this plan. If we make it, we will have brought about the beginning of the end in a way even our battle at Bolvangar might be dwarfed by. If not, we can only hope that we will meet that Lion-Aslan-again; and that he rescues us from Ragnar just as he did Susan and Christian from Lord Asriel the last time we were in this world."

Or, like, Edmund thought to himself, how he saved me on the ice bridge so that I could live on, grow up, and become an alethiometrist; all of which, have led me here.


	30. King Ragnar

Even in the layers of warm fox and beaver furs, and rich fabrics, huddled under the most luxurious coat of a soft, cream-and-gold colour that could be managed, Susan shivered from the bitter cold of Svalbard and had to remind herself that she was supposed to walk in with confidence, not shaking all over.

She tried to remember the look on her mother's face during an audience with somebody she was trying to impress or-more often-persuade. Sweet, wide-eyed, small smile; was that all? There had to be more to it than that, but she could think of nothing else. Her heart was pounding.

Maugrim's fur stood on edge, much as his mistress willed it to go down with all her might. Perhaps, if she could only not think about what she was doing the whole time…if she could think of something different…something that would make her smile...

She thought of Lyra's words before they left her behind at Jordan.

The girl had, at first, been cross enough to be left out of their upcoming venture; all the more so since the reason appeared to be nothing more than that she looked like her father and might be recognized by the bear king. However, in the end, the mention of her father had reminded Lyra of something she had been meaning to do; or, rather, say.

Seizing Billy Costa's hand without warning, she marched right up to Lord Asriel and said, "Uncle Asriel," (though she thought of him as her father, knowing the truth for a long, long while now, she still had never quite worked up to out-right addressing him as such) "I've decided I'm going to marry Billy Costa. I ain't asking your permission, just tellin'."

Coolly, with barely a half shrug at Stelmaria over the matter, he'd replied, "Good God, what makes you think I would stop you? What do you want?" His tone became sarcastic. "A dowry? Fine, he can have my old machine for showing lantern slides for a wedding present." His snow leopard snorted. Perhaps Lord Asriel was cross at his exclusion from the plan to rid Svalbard of Ragnar's rule as well.

Lyra's part of the exchange, so bold and sure of herself, made Susan smile; and Lord Asriel's part, indifferent and cold, made her angry enough not to feel her fear of Ragnar so intently.

Reassuring, too, was the fact that she was not entering into the bear king's throne room on her own. It was true that there were three remarkably thick-set white bears in bright gold-and-brass armour (one of them had a chain of coppery-red metal with a golden half-sun pedant, underlined with a thinner piece of silver carved to look like a flat cloud; truly horrendously out-of-place jewelry for such an ancient and powerful race) marching along at her sides, which made Maugrim snarl and hold his tail out rigidly, refusing to let it slide even briefly between his back legs so that they wouldn't think he was cowering to them. But there was also Lucy and Edmund trotting along at her left.

Edmund's face was, of course, well hidden by the hood of a blue velvet cloak that had once belonged to the Master of Jordan. He pleaded a deformity when anyone asked him to show himself; Ella, covered in ashes, was hardly recognizable as a snowy owl, and looked rather like an over-grown, thick-waisted seagull or other similar scavenger breed of bird. Susan, when questioned, had, through trembling lips, managed to pull off a near-perfect imitation of her mother's voice, insisting that he was only her helper, slow-witted, and of no consequence to King Ragnar. _She_ was the one who had come all this way to speak with him on a matter she felt certain he would be keenly interested in.

As for Lucy, she wore a winter coat of white, green, and bright red, with a fur-lined hood that did not cover her face all the way; Reepicheep secured in a decorative bag sewn with green beads and fake pearls.

She wished she could be as concealed as Edmund was, but knew that wouldn't work. What good would Ragnar see in a dæmon that would not show its face? He might, his mind turned more cynical than was good for him due to the humanization of the court as a whole, suspect that she was a hideous monster rather than a desirable assent, and that Mrs. Coulter's daughter was trying to pull off a deception for no other reason than to rid his enemy Iorek of a nasty, extra limb when all was said and done. Edmund thought Ragnar would be so desperate for a dæmon he wouldn't care if Lucy had green skin and a foot-long nose; but they knew they mustn't take that chance.

Lucy's own heart was beating faster even than Susan's at the moment. Every time she came within so much as the most distant rage of a human guard, she thought their dæmon would sense Reepicheep. Ma Costa had put shavings of cedar-wood at the bottom of the bag after she finished sewing it for her, which would help keep Reepicheep undetected, but Lucy still felt wary. Not that it would matter, really, as they wouldn't know what Susan was there to talk to Ragnar about-yet if they should wonder why anyone would keep their dæmon in a bag…well, that looked fishy straight off.

Oh, Reep, thought Lucy, clenching her jaw in an attempt to look uncharacteristically stern, I wish Peter were here, too-I wish he could hold my hand and tell me it will be all right.

Judging by the strained, forced superior smile plastered on Susan's face and matching one spread artificially across her wolf-dæmon's jaw in a tight line, she gathered her sister-in-law wished that as well.

But of course Peter couldn't come in with them. He'd had to pose as their dumb servant, the sled driver, holding Doe, knowing that no one would pay him mind and notice, just as they weren't likely to notice a slave with a wooden limb.

They'd toyed, for a while, with the idea of bringing Peter along and saying that Susan had been the one to successfully separate him from a former dæmon, only that seemed to be spreading it on a mite too thickly and they knew they daren't risk that. Peter had offered, after a bit of thought, to pretend to be the dæmon himself; he didn't have one of his own, besides, so the disguise would be within a slightly smoother transition so to speak. But, then, Edmund and Susan had to remind him that he was not as appealing as Lucy as far as a potential dæmon went, and that since King Ragnar was so keen on dæmons, the news of a person in that world roaming about at large without one would have interested him. If that were the case, he would know who Peter was quickly enough, especially if Mrs. Coulter had said anything about it to him, and their cover would be thrown to the wolves altogether.

Maugrim dry-heaved; this was understandable as the royal hallway leading into the throne room might have had several crude imitations of human things, but it still smelled like bear and spoiled meat, mixed with what was probably frozen perfume.

Ragnar himself sat on a beautiful throne made of silver and ice. There was gold leafing on his sharp claws and he wore what-Edmund thought-was an extreme example of a heavy, not very attractive, European-style crown, far too busy with way too great an abundance of inlaid jewels and precious stones. How Ragnar, mighty and powerful-headed as he was, did not get his skull crushed in from the weight of that ridiculous crown, was rather a mystery.

He's too strong, Susan thought, we can't do this. Then, she saw a doll on the side of his throne; a big vacant-eyed doll.

What did a king-any sort of king-want with a child's toy? That was when it came to light. This wasn't a child's toy, not in Ragnar's eyes. To him, it was the dæmon that he could not have because he was a bear and not a man. The silly little doll was dressed, Susan couldn't help noticing, sort of how her mother dressed; the fox coat over the elegant clothing was very like a coat she remembered from Marisa's closet all those years back. That was when she knew she was safe.

Daring to exchange a smile with Lucy, Susan felt her confidence grow for real, no longer put on, at last. Edmund was right; Ragnar would believe her. He would believe each every word she uttered if only she could convince him she was like her mother.

"Who is this woman?" roared Ragnar, rising ever so slightly up from his throne, looking more like an amused nobleman than a disturbed bear.

"All greetings to you, King Ragnar of Svalbard," said Susan, very prettily, making herself flash a coy smile at him. "You do not know me, great sire, but I know you."

A white-gold brow raised at her. "Eh? What's this? You know me, Lady? Tell me, is it for good or for bad?"

 _Flattery, flattery, flattery,_ _we're not as safe as you might think-remember, flatter him!_ Maugrim sent the thought to Susan, reminding her to concentrate and not get carried away or cocky.

"Your Majesty, I've heard of you from my mother," she said. Her coat's hood was already well away from her face, but now she pulled it all the way off, relieving herself. For a passing moment, she almost wished she had fair hair, instead of dark, so as to be more reminiscent of her mother; she would have to make do, however, with what she had.

"Your mother is?"

"Marisa Coulter, Your Majesty."

Ragnar's big eyes widened. "I thought she had a son…they said he turned traitor."

"A son?" Susan pretended to look slightly confused, pursing her lips. "Oh, yes, my brother. There is no reason for someone as high as yourself to bother with a missing nobody such as _him_."

Edmund couldn't help but be impressed with how she said that. She spoke so surely, so firmly, yet calmly and airily enough so that it didn't seem like a big deal; she seemingly put him down to the king of Svalbard, but in reality this was her way of protecting him, of keeping him safe from recognition. He hadn't told her that part of what she ought to say, though the rest was largely a general play-by-play of what they had practiced earlier. Good old, Su. This really was kind of her, as well as sensible and wise.

Their only fear, however, were the few human guards who were still loosely stationed here and there about the throne room. If they sensed Reepicheep, or picked up on who Ella really was…

Susan knew it would be foolish and would only raise suspicions if she asked for all the human guards to be sent away, without explanation, and didn't concern herself over the dæmonless bears.

"Great king, please, I've come to speak with you on a secret matter; it's dreadfully important. Do, if it pleases Your Majesty, send everybody out-my assistant is trustworthy and dumb-you needn't worry about him." Susan allowed her eyes to flicker to her brother for a split second. "And the girl," –here she looked at Lucy; "I'll explain her in a moment." She took a few steps forward, Maugrim right behind his mistress, never letting on how dear it cost her not to tremble-nor to avoid wrinkling her nose from the dead-seal-and-flowers smell wafting off of Ragnar's far-too-combed-looking fur. Her voice low, she added, "It's about dæmons"

Immensely interested, Ragnar cried out more than he properly roared, "Get out, all of you! At once! You guards! Leave this room, do you hear? I wish to speak with the visitor alone-royal business. No one is to re-enter the throne room before my bidding them to do so, or they'll be killed and then kept on fish heads and sharp ice for six weeks."

Once they were gone, he looked at Susan and said, "Well, Lady Coulter's daughter? What is it?"

"I know, great king," she said, "that you have been told it is an unspeakable heresy to be an alethiometrist, and surely you believe it because you think my mother was wholly in league with the Ruling Powers. I assure you she was not as devoted to them as she appeared, nor do I think she would have kept her promises to you."

"What promises?" He seemed to be on-edge now, his dark eyes squinted almost crossly.

Susan knew her mother had promised him a great many things, but there was only one she was aware of in particular, and she hoped it would suffice. "Well, she promised you your name could be written down in the human directory at the royal arctic institute, of which she was one of the few female members, did she not?"

"She did," he confessed gruffly. "Are you telling me that blessed woman, that wonderful beauty, in her tragically short life, deceived me?"

"Great Ragnar, I believe she did, though perhaps not intentionally." She paused. Then, "I think she admired you deeply and wanted to give you what she promised, only it was not in her power. More than that is in mine, although I beg mercy from you when I tell you what I am now."

"What are you?"

"An alethiometrist, Your Grace."

"Alethiometrist, eh?"

"Yes, and I know things about Dust, too-I've studied."

"And?"

"They would never, however my mother tried to plea for you, let your name go in the directory, because you don't have a dæmon and creatures without them aren't allowed in the institute, you know-not even dwarfs…or fauns."

"I see."

"But, Sire, I have given an ice bear a dæmon." Susan inhaled deeply and pointed to Lucy. "Here she is. A human form, not animal, but it suits a race so magnificent as yours."

"Come here, little thing-I mean to say, dæmon," said the bear king, laughter in his tone. "Speak to me. Is this lady speaking truth, did she and others give you to a bear? And which one?"

"I give you my greetings," Lucy said, approaching the throne and curtsying. "But not his."

"Not who's? Who do you belong to?"

"Iorek Byrnison's, King Ragnar." It was the most dangerous thing Lucy had ever had to say; she could, even before the name died off her lips, see the bear king's face form an expression of disgustingly human lividness.

Lifting a paw, all of his claws sticking out more sharply than ever, he screamed, "Vile little thing! If you are _his_ dæmon, I will kill you right now and be free of an enemy!"

Edmund couldn't help himself, he ran forward, ready to fling himself in front of Lucy. He would not have protected his dear one, his love, for all this time, simply to have her savagely murdered by a beastly usurper right before his very eyes. The Alethiometrist would sooner have given up Ella-his own dæmon, his own soul, who he could not live without-than let Lucy be harmed. If she lived and he died, it wouldn't matter because the greatest part of him would still be living; her, his Lucy.

Seeing all this reasoning of Edmund's in little more than a flash, Maugrim stood in his way, stopping him from coming any closer. Ragnar would not kill Lucy; he knew his mistress would stop him before it came to that. Edmund must not take so foolish a risk; not yet, not when he didn't have to.

If he could have seen the look on Edmund's face (he couldn't, as it was still hidden by the hood) the wolf would have known at once that the only thing written in his expression was, "I'm not afraid to break the taboo, don't stand in my way."

Maugrim appealed to Ella, urging her to calm her human. She finally managed, though it was a struggle for her to give in, fighting against her own nature, her desire to save Reepicheep, and do so.

Susan had, meanwhile, stationed herself in a perilous manner between Ragnar and Lucy which Peter would not have permitted for so much as a second had he been in there with them.

"If you kill her," shouted Susan, "she can never be your dæmon!"

Ragnar stopped, lowering his paw and calming down considerably. " _My_ dæmon?"

"That's why we've come here," Susan said, "don't you understand? They said they would never let me give another bear a dæmon when they realized the advantage it gave Iorek; but if only one ice bear can have a dæmon, it should be you. You're clever and rich, and passionate; better than Iorek in every way. And she-his dæmon-has only agreed with me on this. I've told her about you. She wants to be yours. Can't you see she's come willingly? At her own risk? And you would kill her!"

"I wouldn't," amended Ragnar, looking fondly at Lucy. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Susan all but gushed. "That is why we love you best, for your strength and bravery." Of course it was cowardly more than anything else to, in cold-blood, kill an enemy's dæmon as he had tried to do, most _humans_ would have gone so low, but they didn't dare say _that_.

"Where is Iorek now?"

"He's on his way here," Lucy managed feebly, her heart still pounding from the near-death experience. "To…to fight you."

"He's mad!" laughed Ragnar. "What on earth does he want?"

"Me," murmured Lucy, looking down. "He wants me back. He's coming to get me."

"Nonsense," scoffed Ragnar. "You're mine, you stay with _me_."

"Not yet she isn't," said Susan, pretending to be forlorn about it. "You must defeat Iorek in single combat. Only then can she become yours."

"But how can I tell my subjects I am fighting an outcast? They would find it too odd not to ask questions and think rebellious thoughts about me. I would look weak. Is there no other way?"

"Great king," Susan tried, "if you will give us leave for a half hour, into another room-a private one-undisturbed, I could consult the alethiometer and see if there is not an answer. You'll still have to fight him, but perhaps we can come up with a reasonable excuse for your subjects."

They were led into an antechamber with a shaggy royal blue rug and a multi-coloured, mosaic-tile oriental table in the middle.

"Susan," Edmund said, whispering through his teeth, not daring to pull back his hood just yet, "is Ragnar still watching us?"

"Yes." Susan could see this, whereas Edmund's back was currently to the bear king so that he could not.

"All right, don't look at me; pretend you're talking to Lucy."

Susan turned and did as he ordered.

"Take out the alethiometer from your pocket and set it on the table." He continued to speak under his breath. "Open it."

"He's gone now," Susan told him.

Only then did Edmund show his face, now that they were safely alone, flinging back the hood. "Let me see the alethiometer."

"Ask it how far away Iorek is now," Ella said, fluttering a bit anxiously.

"What are we going to tell Ragnar's subjects?"

"Iorek is close," Edmund informed them, reaching over and closing the silver-and-gold alethiometer now that he had his answer. "Ragnar will have to tell everyone that it was his idea for Iorek to come back, as a way of making his kingdom more secure."

"So no matter what, if Iorek wins," Lucy cried, "he'll be king right away; no matters to sort afterwards, no misunderstandings, because it's an official duel for Svalbard. Edmund, that's brilliant!" She reached over and flung her arms around his neck.

"Thanks, Lu," he said, gently prying her off of him, wishing he could hold back the slight blush rising to his cheeks, all too pleased to have her admiration.

"But what if that insipid usurper says something about the duel only being for the gaining of a dæmon?" Maugrim growled questioningly.

"Su will have to tell him not to mention it," said Edmund. "I'm sure she can." Then, to Susan herself, "Did you see the look he was giving you in there? He _adores_ you."

"Great," muttered Susan and Maugrim at the same time, sarcasm dripping heavily from their voice.

"How did Iorek know to come?" Lucy wanted to know.

"Ramandu's daughter told him," Edmund explained. "Lee Scoresby is bringing him as close as he can, then Iorek has to run the rest of the way here."

"Oh," said Susan, somewhat despairingly. "He'll be so tired, while Ragnar will have servants and everything he needs to see that he's ready at once and perfectly outfitted. Oh, Edmund, this is dreadful! Is there any real chance of success? I wish we hadn't come."

"Courage, Susan! Of course there's a chance. There's every chance in the world-and it's for all the worlds. We have to do this, remember?"

"You're right, Ed, of course you are."

"Thank you," he sighed heavily. "Now, for pity's sake, don't cry or Ragnar will eat me as punishment for 'making you sad'!"

Despite her own fears, Lucy lifted her hands to her mouth and giggled. She couldn't help it.


	31. Something worse than fear and snow

"We shouldn't have come, Ragnar is too strong," murmured Susan, for what was probably the millionth time. Maugrim's throat seemed to have closed up on him; at any rate, he wasn't speaking much or making noises of any kind, not even so much as a half-whimper or a doggish whine.

Lucy rolled her eyes. Of course Susan was frightened, but her saying that so frequently wasn't helping her or Edmund's nerves, either.

Edmund had to clench his fists and remind himself his sister was doing the best she could and that it wouldn't have been kind or just to reach over and slap her. And, besides, Ragnar probably would have bitten his hand off if he attempted it. He preferred to keep his hands attached to his wrists if he had the option.

The sun beat down on the glaring snow, and after a while, Edmund, feeling, despite the cold, a bit suffocated under his hood, wondered if he could safely pull it back.

No one was watching him. Everyone's eyes seemed to be focused on four things and four things only; Ragnar, emerging in his glittering silver armour with three big diamonds the size of a child's fist on the perfectly polished helmet…Susan covered in several dozen gold chains and rings and large gems-mostly rubies and crystals-that Ragnar had given her which the _real_ alethiometrist had explained she mustn't refuse…Lucy in simpler, but just as grand, finery-a silver chain with a white gold snowflake, a warm black cape with a golden clasp and no hood, and a velvet green dress lined with white wolf fur…and, lastly, the path Iorek was sure to come bounding up at any given moment.

Under his cloak, the alethiometrist wore shoulder armour and carried a sword. Was it possible that if he stood off to the side for a bit no one would even notice him, much less _recognize_ him?

A wind that was sharper than it was cold, per say, blew a dusting of snow up Edmund's nose. He couldn't rid himself of it without lifting the hood, which he was longing to do anyhow.

Slowly, blinking from the intense increase of light, Ella's head twisting from side to side to be sure that no one was paying attention, Edmund pulled back the hood and inhaled deeply.

Maugrim gave him a sharp expression that showcased Susan's fear and displeasure over his actions, and Lucy's eyes, though they didn't dare linger, were drawn to him, widening.

He mouthed, but wasn't sure if she saw, "It's all right, don't worry."

And, indeed, it appeared to be; Edmund might just as well have been invisible as standing there with his hood pulled back, cleaning the snow drippings out of his nose with the back of his hand very unappealingly.

Iorek appeared on the path and Ragnar rose to his hind legs. Maugrim felt himself whimper involuntarily, much as he tried to repress it. Ella flapped her wings. In his bag Reepicheep, Lucy sensed-and felt at her side-did a little summersault.

Anxious, Lucy found herself edging closer to Edmund. In the one moment it was safe for them to be close enough to speak, before he had to put his hood back on and edge away from her before Ragnar tore his eyes from Iorek-and then Susan-to look proudly at his future 'dæmon', the alethiometrist softly said, "Keep smiling."

Swallowing hard and blinking away her tears, Lucy nodded and forced a small smile. He was right, Ragnar might not understand all human emotions, but he might know what some of them meant, and he mustn't figure out that she was afraid for her _panserbjørne_ friend, that she wanted Iorek to win and not him.

It was easy for her to smile at Edmund at least, and she wondered if that was the trick of it; to look at Ragnar and the open plain and Iorek, and feel fear curl up in her stomach, but to always, always, always think, not of that, but of her beloved alethiometrist and his owl dæmon. Lucy could keep his face in her mind most of the time, even when she wasn't looking at him and his hood was over his head, and things were easier to endure. Troubles were easier to smile at.

"Bears!" roared Iorek unexpectedly, when he was in ear-shot. "Hear me! Your so-called king has ruined this court, he has _cursed_ you. Gold and diamonds are not bear materials, steel and sky-iron are. How readily he forgets, forsakes his own soul for dreams that can never come true! Will you also go down with him? If I win, the first thing I do will be to tear down the false improvements; I will make you all bears again. You are beasts, not humans, and-by my kingship-you will remember that!"

Ragnar growled, then roared in returned, "When I kill this cub and my throne is secure, I will have none of you ever speak his name again on pain of death! To even _think_ of him will be an offence worthy of imprisonment. Prince? Fah! I see no prince! Only a foolish, trouble-making cub I sent for to deal with once and for all."

The two bears went at it hard. There was shoving and biting, horrid blows to faces and noses with paws, and deep cuts with claws; and twice Iorek looked done for.

Lucy held her breath, watching in disbelief. Iorek, brave, swift bear that he was, had managed to draw first blood, but soon after he bled more than his opponent had. Ragnar got a tear in his pretty chain-mail, only it didn't seem to hurt him, only amuse him; for he looked down at it, glanced at Iorek, and chuckled lightly before going on.

He's going to lose, Susan thought, nearly beside herself with grief and disappointment. They would lose a friend for ever, and when the bear king realized he had be deceived they might lose their lives, too. It was all too horrible for words, even for explainable emotions.

"Susan, wait," whispered Maugrim to his human, "don't panic yet. Doesn't the way Iorek's limping on that paw of his-the one that appears injured-remind you of anything?"

She thought hard. Maugrim was right, it _was_ familiar. But from where? Then it hit her; it wasn't over yet. Iorek looked almost exactly like Peter had when he was fighting Miraz. There was a chance, it appeared, that Iorek was exaggerating his actual pain. The clever bear was using what he'd learned from Edmund before; that bears could be tricked now; Ragnar could be tricked now. And he was.

A few minutes longer and it was all over. Ragnar was struck by a heavy blow he wasn't expecting, his whole skull flew out of his open red-now bloody-mouth, landing on the far end of the next hill.

Susan put her hand to her mouth to avoid throwing up; Maugrim panted heavily, his expression gone rather sickly. Lucy gasped; Reepicheep jumped in his bag. Edmund pulled back his hood, knowing he was safe now, daring the guards to lay one hand on him in front of Iorek the new king of Svalbard; Ella rubbed herself against the snow to free her feathers of her disguise.

"Bears, who is your king?" Iorek screamed, roaring as though he would never stop.

His subjects cheered and many of them threw off their ornaments. Those who had 'sucked up' to Ragnar by getting dolls and pretending to have dæmons tossed these toys aside for good. A real bear was in charge now, a real bear was once again lord over them, they did not have to act like humans any longer.

"We did it!" Lucy ran to Edmund and threw her arms around his waist. "We actually did it!"

Peter came rushing over from where he'd been on their sledge and lifted Susan up off her feet, spinning her around. "How's that for a blow to the Ruling Powers?"

Maugrim grunted contentedly, trying to take in everything at once, while his human kissed her husband and grinned from ear to ear. He noticed Doe looking at his tail again and bared his teeth at her.

It was a moment of pure happiness for all. But it was just that, unfortunately. A mere moment. For in the next, something horrible and unexpected happened.

The thick clouds over-head seemed to sort of burst, covering up the whole sky with gray…then white, as snow started to fall at an alarming speed. The wind picked up, swirling around them madly. It was a blizzard unlike any of them had ever seen before in their lives; even the ice bears were utterly stunned by it.

"To the castle!" ordered Iorek, urging all of the other bears forward.

The she-bears and cubs were allowed to pass first, before the male bears, because-strong as they were-they were more likely to be harmed in a massive storm than a full-grown male was.

If Edmund had had time to ponder over what he was seeing he would have wondered which-if any-of these female bears was Iseult Saoirse. However, he didn't have so much as a half second for curious wondering, for he realized he could not see Lucy through the whirling flakes and immediately felt a panic rising within him. She had let go of him not even a full minute before the storm began and now he couldn't even tell if she was near or far.

There was a hand, a hand too thick to belong to Lucy, reaching out and pulling him somewhere. Then, blinking to clear his vision as best he could, Ella sensing no dæmon, he realized it must be Peter.

A scream echoed from only a few feet away, and they both whipped their heads round to see who it was.

It was Susan; a strong wind had knocked her down into a small snow-bank. Maugrim appeared to be limping, giving away that his mistress had something wrong with one of her legs-likely a bruised knee or a cut ankle, nothing worse. Still, she wouldn't be able to reach the ice bears' palace in time-not without help.

Far to Susan's right, Lucy struggled, weighed down by Reep's bag which had caught on a boulder of some kind.

When he looked at his brother-in-law's face, quick glance though it was, Edmund thought he had never before known what real pain within a person's expression looked like. Peter didn't know what to do with himself. He could rush forward and save his wife, help her to her feet and carry her to safety. But if he did that, he wouldn't be able to get to Lucy, who was now trying to tear the strap off the bag (not that it would have done her any good if she wasn't able to get Reepicheep out of it) and free herself.

"It's all right," Edmund shouted, pulling away from Peter's grip. "Help Susan! I'll get Lucy!"

There was no time to argue, Peter rushed over to Susan and, pulling her and Maugrim along, attempted to make it back to safety.

Edmund reached Lucy, managing to tear the bag's strap off of the boulder. Only, before he could get Reepicheep out, Ella let out a caw of dismay as a great wind and a swarm of bee-like snowflakes over took them, knocking them down into a snow-bank which turned out to be a hill covered in sleet and ice.

The last thing either of them heard was Peter and Susan-and another voice that sounded like Iorek-screaming their names.

Afterwards, Lucy always swore she remembered grabbing onto Edmund's hand as they laid sprawled out, frozen and weak, unable to get up, yet everyone told her that her memory must have been incorrect on that matter. It would appear that they landed on opposite sides of a fallen pine tree because when someone came and took Edmund away from one side, they didn't have so much as a glimpse of Lucy. As her dæmon was still in the bag containing the cedar-shavings, they had no knowledge of her being there at all to begin with, their dæmons unable to sense Reepicheep's presence.

She woke hours later and found herself wandering aimlessly. There was no way of getting back to Iorek and the others, the fresh snow everywhere left no path and aside from the notion that it was somewhere above-since she and Edmund had fallen _down_ in the storm-there was no way of guessing which direction she ought to go in. Reepicheep's guess was no better, for he was every bit as dazed, confused, and cold as his mistress. Besides, even if Lucy could have found the way back, she would have wanted to find Edmund first.

It had been alarming, to say the least, when she woke up, remembering everything, and finding her alethiometrist boyfriend no where in sight. She called his name hoarsely a few times, but there was no answer.

Perhaps if Lucy had stayed where she was, Peter, who was out looking for her and Edmund, would have crossed her path and taken care of her; but she couldn't will herself to remain still. Without even knowing why she was doing it, she found herself marching as quickly as she could through the frozen hills and valleys and rows of flat plains.

How long this went on is uncertain. After a while her head spun and she dry heaved helplessly, having nothing in her stomach to throw up. Soon she didn't even know what she was doing; by that point she could think of nothing but how hungry and sore she felt, how very red her hands were. There was some snow that had seeped into a hole in one of her boots and she could feel it soaking right through her sock.

The sound of sleigh bells jingled and Lucy blinked in surprise.

The man driving and the passenger looked very alike, their features plain and their parkas close to matching. Neither looked particularly friendly, but they stopped when they saw her anyway, and the kinder of the two did remark, "I say, she doesn't look well; perhaps she's mortal hungry. Give the girl some bread-I suppose we can take her along."

At first, Lucy tried to protest, but a slight jab in the rips from Reepicheep reminded her that she had no choice. If she declined going with them, she might freeze or starve (likely both) to death on her own in the middle of Svalbard-if it even was Svalbard she was currently in…She thought she might have wandered out of it by mistake after all this time.

So in the end she rested in the back of their sleigh and ate the bread and cheese they offered her, as well as a little jerky. To drink, there was warm milk from an insulated mug.

"What's your name?" one of them more or less demanded.

"Lucy," she told them truthfully.

"Your dæmon…is… _settled_?"

It was an odd question and she couldn't see why it would matter, but she answered yes anyway.

They looked sort of disappointed, whispering between themselves. The gruffer of the two looked sullen. Their dæmons, both foxes, one red and the other white, yawned and shook a few newly fallen snowflakes out of their glossy yet weather-beaten fur.

"We'll take you to the nearest settlement."

"Where's that?" Lucy asked.

"You'll see," was the only answer they would give her.

She tried to persuade them to take her to King Iorek in Svalbard, only they seemed afraid of the armoured bears and kept insisting they didn't want to go there and 'bother' the beasts they ought to 'show respect' for.

Reepicheep thought they were just cowards making excuses; Lucy urged him to keep that to himself.

The rest of the journey was quiet; now that they had fed her and learned that her dæmon could no longer change shape, they seemed to have lost all interest in talking to the girl they had rescued.

The sleigh came to a stop in front of a great building that made Lucy's heart skip a beat in terror. Reepicheep hissed wordlessly.

It was different than how she remembered it, even the last time she'd seen it; they'd rebuilt it differently-darker with less glass and half of the glowing dome and more than half of the roof was covered with plaster and stucco.

Lucy held Reepicheep as tightly as he would let her. "Bolvangar," she whispered falteringly to herself, shaking all over, her cheeks draining of any remaining colour.

"Come on," said the man with the red fox dæmon. "Get out of the sleigh. This is your stop."

Losing her head in a panic, remembering everything, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that Bolvangar was, however shabbily, back, returning like a ghost from the ancient past to haunt and torment her, she screamed, "No! Don't touch me! I won't go in there! I won't! Let me go back to Svalbard!"

"Calm down, calm down!" The one who had grabbed her arm, meaning to help her out of the sleigh, to which she had shouted for not to touch her, gave her a rough shake. "Some gratitude! Now get down and stop this maddening row."

A thin man with tired eyes, a cat dæmon, and a black woolen coat over a white smock came to the door and asked what on earth was going on.

"We found this girl…thought it was a child at first, but she's settled, it turns out. Only we couldn't just leave her, and we hadn't the foggiest notion of where else to bring her."

He sighed; the cat-dæmon rolled her eyes. "Well, I suppose she'll have to stay the night."

"Her name's Lucy," they told him. "Had a bit of a fit a few seconds ago, but-that put aside-she seems normal enough. Lost, I suppose."

"I'll not pay you," he reminded them, a bit harshly, "a grown up isn't as much use to us; we've got enough of those. But she can stay, at least for now."

"No…" Lucy shook her head.

"Hmm, maybe I should get someone closer to her own age to speak with her." He appeared to be speaking to his cat-dæmon rather than to Lucy or the two men, still present. "Might relax her a bit."

"She seemed fine until we pulled up," the man with the white fox grumped. "Don't know what got into her."

"Well, she can't be much younger than Coulter…I'll see if he'll come and speak to her, or at least get her to come indoors." To Lucy, "I really don't know what you're so scared of."

"Stay away from me," she murmured, her lower lip trembling.

"Lucy," Reepicheep said suddenly, in a low voice, "did he just say 'Coulter'?"

She blinked, startled at the realization. "Yes, I think he did."

"There aren't any left, are there?"

"A cousin?" guessed Lucy, this new idea taking her mind off her phobia of Bolvangar for a moment.

Just as the men who had brought her there were leaving in their sleigh, someone else appeared in the doorway. The man with the cat-dæmon whispered something to this person and they nodded. He and his cat trotted away, leaving the other person alone with Lucy.

Stepping forward, reluctantly, Lucy saw that it was a young man only a little older than herself. A second later, she recognized him; he had a very familiar face, dark hair, and a snowy-owl dæmon.

"Edmund!" she exclaimed under her breath, wondering if this was some sort of plan she'd been unaware of.

But when she looked into his eyes, as if for some kind of explanation, or at the very least a glimmer of a wink to let her know everything was fine, she saw nothing. His eyes were completely blank, as if he had no clue who she was, and Ella, while present, didn't seem quite right. The owl's movements no longer seemed connected to her human and his thoughts; she appeared uninterested in everything around her and sort of, well, pet-like.

"Edmund?" she said, more clearly this time, not sure if she should take a step forward or a step back.

"How did you know my name?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised though not actually all that curious as to her answer.

"Edmund, it's me, Lucy."

His brow crinkled slightly and he blinked. All she could see in him was that same dull expression, he seemed unable to rid himself of it. Worse of all was seeing that when he was puzzled, Ella did not appear so. The owl's expression remained unchanged.


	32. Of cutting, coughing, sleighs, and Dust

This was far more drastic and horrid than anything that had ever happened to Lucy before -she felt certain- even in a bad dream; seeing her beloved Edmund Belacqua, the clever alethiometrist, unresponsive -nearly _stupid_ , even. Reepicheep was unable to handle both seeing and sensing Ella as little more than a dumb, unmotivated pet; the mouse-dæmon kept scurrying uncomfortably around his human's legs as if he were mere moments from losing his mind and falling apart completely.

It didn't help in the least that Edmund appeared indifferent, not only to Lucy's insistence that they knew each other, but also to the tears that streamed down her face. (That is, those that didn't freeze, streamed down.)

Nothing could have been more unnatural. Ordinarily, he hated to see her saddened, never mind _crying_. Now, however, he merely blinked as if slightly taken aback and awkwardly patted her shoulder, telling her everything was all right.

"There, there," said the former alethiometrist, rather woodenly.

There was no warmth, no familiarity, in his attempted reassurance. It was so automatic, so ready and lacking in actual concern, and-worse-love, for her.

"What did they do to you?" whispered Lucy, aghast, speaking more to herself and her dæmon than to Edmund as she reached up and touched the side of his face.

He didn't seem repelled or angered by her touch, but, for the lack of change in his face, he might as well have been. She might just as well not have touched him at all; he took no note, remaining bland and apathetic.

"Why don't you come inside, Lucy?" he said finally, sounding as if he was holding back a yawn. Ella didn't look remotely tired, nor did she flap her wings for emphasis as Lucy was accustomed to her doing.

"Edmund _Belacqua_ ," said Lucy slowly, swallowing hard, sliding her hand down from his face to his arm, and reaching for his hand, attempting to intertwine her fingers with his, thinking that-indifferent or not-he wouldn't be likely to protest. She also hoped he heard how she'd stressed his true surname, willing him to remember, in spite of whatever it was they'd done to him here at Bolvangar, who he really was; no more of this 'Coulter' nonsense. "Come with me, I need to show you something."

"Out there?" He frowned at her. "You mean come out in the cold?" The frown became a distant grimace. "Ugh." Expressionlessly, he added, not in a superior manner, exactly, but sort of as if he thought-maybe in the back of his now almost entirely practical and unimaginative mind-that she was a little queer in the head. "No…I think not."

"Please." She squeezed his hand. "I have to show you something."

"Can't you show me in here?" asked Edmund, sighing tiresomely as if she were a very annoying little child he was trying to deal with using reason and patience. "It's warm and comfortable. Do come in…They want you to, you know."

"They?" Lucy glared at him rather sharply. Reep's ears pricked up.

"The others here." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Forget them," she whispered, unsure if anyone else was listening to their conversation. "I know you don't remember, but trust me; please."

He resisted her tugging for a bit, looking semi-anxiously over his shoulder and rolling his eyes at her by turn, but since he appeared not to have a strong will either way, he slowly began to place his feet over the threshold, giving in.

This was going much too slowly for Lucy's liking. She was afraid that at any given moment someone would come and stop her from taking him if he didn't get on and stop dragging himself.

"We have to go inside," mumbled Edmund, in a very grown-up but not particularly forceful tone.

Something was telling him he was supposed to do as he'd been ordered (bring the girl in) only he wasn't sure why; and paradoxly there was also a numb sense of urgency that he couldn't explain to himself or understand. He only felt this like a faint prickle whenever Lucy's hand was squeezing his; if only for a fleeting second, his mind told him he was meant to go with her, that he needed to see whatever it was she had to show him.

"They'll ask what it is that's taking him so long in a bit," Reepicheep said to his human urgently. "Make him hurry!"

"I'm trying!" Lucy hissed to him shortly, cross from increasing fear brought on by Edmund's reluctant attitude. "Come on, Ed, I know it's cold, but you've been colder; you were a prisoner in Svalbard!"

"No I wasn't," he retorted, laughing dryly. "I've never been-"

"Stop it!" Lucy let go of his hand and, despite the fact that doing so made her cry even harder than before, smacked him smartly across the face. "Come with me at once."

Angry in a cold, hard, unreachable way, he grabbed at her hair and it hurt dreadfully; she thought-her already broken heart apparently breaking all over again-he was going to pull her into Bolvangar by it; but then a change appeared to come over him.

He was breathing heavily, she could see his chest heaving and that his dull eyes, though too dense-looking to flash, did darken somewhat. It seemed as if watching her tremble and hearing her cry out as she had from both the pain and shock of the whole ordeal did hurt him, even if it wasn't supposed to, and he still couldn't wrap his thoughts around _why_.

Hardly daring to believe it, Lucy felt his fingers loosen their grip. Then he more or less shoved her roughly two feet away from the doors leading into Bolvangar.

"Go on," said Edmund, his voice unwavering but his legs wobbling in an unstable manner. "Get out of here!"

Lucy staggered to keep on her feet and not fall over. He was letting her go, protecting her in a sense even if he didn't realize it, but at the same time-for one so trapped into complete practicality-it was also very foolish. What was she going to do stranded in the snow alone with no one to help her after being shut out of Bolvangar? She didn't _want_ to go in, of course, but without Edmund what else was she supposed to do? She couldn't just let him go back in, to be a dumb submissive servant to the Ruling Powers for the rest of his life.

Before Edmund was able to step back over the threshold and into Bolvangar, closing the doors behind him, Reepicheep noticed that the barn -from which Lucy and Peter had first gotten a sleigh and reindeer and escaped from this terrible place all those years ago- still stood. It appeared to be a touch run down with age, but -thankfully- it looked as if it was still in use. They might escape the same way, the two of them. If only Lucy could make Ed come with her.

Thinking quickly, Reepicheep scurried over to Edmund and rubbed against his leg, trying to gentle and cuddle him as Ella would have done if she were still attached to her master. True, Reep was not a cuddle-dæmon by nature, a bit too dignified a mouse for that, but the state of a man who had lost his dæmon even as she remained perched on his shoulder, made him long to comfort the former alethiometrist. In most cases the taboo would have stopped him, in spite of his deep, gut-wrenching pity, only he had broken the great taboo for Edmund before, and felt no guilt or disgust doing so now-now when he needed him more than ever.

Stretching upwards, Reep even nuzzled the slightly calloused ends of Edmund's fingertips with his nose.

His expression went from blank and indifferent to utterly lost. If the previous expressions had been painful to see in someone she cared so deeply about, Lucy now found that this new one was just as crushing, though in a different way. He wanted to know her, clear as day, and he couldn't make himself remember.

Listlessly, as if broken from the inside out, Edmund allowed Lucy to lead him by both hands, without any further protest, to the barn.

Ella let out a faint hooting sound, as any pet owl might have done, and did not seem to care where her master was going or what he was doing. She slouched a little on his shoulder, like a dim-witted bird in a cage who doesn't mind where she is carried off to so long as there is seed and water enough to sustain her when regular mealtimes come around.

The strong smell of animal urine and wet hay did not seem to affect Edmund, and Lucy was too shaken herself to take any real note of it, although her nose did crinkle as she entered the low, shabby building.

She hated to ask anything of Edmund when he looked the way he did, but she risked taking out her silver pocket watch, pressing the precious alethiometer into his hands, and gently inquiring, "How far back can you remember, Ed?"

Squinting hopelessly in the poor lighting at the object in his cold, trembling palms the girl with the mouse-dæmon was so eager for him to recognize, he mumbled, "I can remember the others here telling me my name was Edmund Coulter."

"Think," she urged him. "Before that."

"There's nothing before that."

"There _is_ ," she told him. "There has to be."

"I'm sorry." He shook his head, making a motion with his hands as if to give the silver alethiometer back into her keeping. In his confusion he thought it a toy of some kind; pretty and nicely made, but of no use to him.

Reepicheep rested against his leg and something flickered for a fleeting second in his dull eyes. "There is maybe one thing before that, only it wasn't real."

"What was it?"

"A nightmare," Edmund confessed, not as if it bothered him.

"What sort of nightmare?" Lucy pressed.

"I don't know…there was sort of fencing everywhere…and a bright bluish light." He wrinkled his nose. "Nonsense; I'm sorry, I must have gone batty for a moment." He smiled patronizingly. "That's a nice toy you've got, by the way; like a compass or something. Glad you showed it to me. There is nothing else?" So far gone was he by this point that even if the 'nightmare' was not so muddled and blurred in his memory, he wouldn't have been able to tell it in a traditional, proper manner; he could sew a wound or set an arm in a bandage, or carry objects and accomplish complicated laborious tasks, even organize lists and supplies and important documents, all the while having no real interest in any of those things for himself, but never could he tell a story or have anything a person who had not known him previous to this disaster would find interesting to say.

All of this was enough for Lucy to gather that he was a victim of intercision. As they had torn Jill and Isi apart, and had tried to do the same to Lucy and Reep, years before, so they had done to Edmund and his Eleanor Glimfeather.

Because she had not been warned by Coriakin as Farder Coram was (for they-Star Consul and old Gyptian both-had wanted nothing more than to protect her, from worry if not from anything deeper, never suspecting she would have to face such a ghastly horror this way, all on her own) Lucy didn't understand why Ed's having had his dæmon cut away hadn't killed him. But she realized clearly enough that if, per-chance, it wasn't the _exact_ same operation, it had to have been something as like it as two peas.

"I'll kill them," mumble-sobbed Lucy in a dangerous, low voice, speaking either to Reepicheep or else to Edmund-or perhaps both, in a sense. "They can't do this. They shouldn't have done it to anyone at all, but especially not to you, Ed. And all because you knew things they were scared of! I'll find Dust-we _will_ find it, Reep-and I'll use it to destroy them."

Up till then her plans had largely been to use the alethiometer and those who would support her to defeat the Ruling Powers in whatever way worked out-given, of course, that it was done right and justly, in a manner the Lion would have approved of-and then to see to doing something for the Gyptians, sick of the way people mistreated them; now that had changed. For one of the few times in her life, Lucy felt genuinely and uncharacteristically thirsty for vengeance. She wanted to smash them, not because what they had done was wrong so much as that it had hit her harder, deeper and more painfully in the core of her heart, this time. All of this struck far too close to home. Such suffering, watching her boyfriend gaze at her hollow-eyed, technically only a half person, was more than a young woman should be asked to bear.

"Lucy," Reepicheep said, creeping away from Edmund, attempting to comfort his mistress and bring her back to her senses. "It's not up to us, not alone. Remember Aslan. He'll set the lot at Bolvangar right for this; it'll only be through us if he wants it to be."

Reep was right, and Lucy knew it, but she still cursed all of Bolvangar and the Ruling Powers and everyone else who had cruelly led them to this point in her mind as she wiped at her dripping nose. The memory of Aslan's golden wonder returned to her, and with that came the reason Reepicheep was trying to bring her back to.

There was a longish moment's pause, during which Lucy was weighing her options.

Finally, she said, "Get him into a sleigh," and went over to the two nearest reindeer; both brown with scattered white markings.

Strangely enough, Edmund didn't protest at all as Lucy helped him into the back of a sleigh, urging him to lie flat down on his back, keep some blankets and furs over himself, not move, and to hold Ella as close to him as possible in the hopes that, despite the fact that they were no longer connected, a bit of whatever warmth and strength the owl remained with after being cut away and turned into some useless creature, barely recognizable as a true dæmon any longer, could still help him in some way.

Since Lucy had no intention of going more than a few feet away from her beloved's side, Reepicheep was able to rest under the former alethiometrist's arm as they prepared to leave.

It was sort of mad, perhaps, to leave with so few-rather stale-food supplies as they could find in little saddle bags and similar packs in the corners of the barn and no map, but Lucy knew she daren't go into Bolvangar in the hopes of getting more necessities. If Edmund had been himself, she would have gone with him inside, figuring on them getting enough to keep themselves alive in the snowy wilderness together. But she had no help now, and if she failed, leaving him alone here-no, she couldn't endure that.

Her only hope now was to drive the reindeer the best she could, little as she was sure how, and make her way back to Svalbard. Peter and Susan and Iorek would be there; they would help, if they could. She didn't let herself think-not yet-of their sure to be frightened reactions to Edmund's current state, because it discouraged her terribly and she felt almost that she would rather die than dwell on that continually as they struggled to press on. They weren't even out of Bolvangar's barn yet! No, she would keep her thoughts on watching over Edmund and on remembering Aslan the best she possibly could. It was all she could do.

That no one saw them leave Bolvangar or made chase after them-at least, not quickly enough that it was a real threat-was a great relief, as well as the only semi-uplifting one Lucy and Reep had had since Iorek beat Ragnar.

Things did not continue on so well afterwards. By the end of the first day on their own with the reindeer and sleigh, not only were they quite lost and less sure of the general direction even than they'd been previously, but Edmund had begun to cough. Soon the cough was accompanied by a wheezing so intense that made _Lucy's_ chest hurt every time she heard it. He coughed more than he spoke, and given less than another full day, he didn't speak at all anymore, only opening his mouth for the latest coughing fit to pass through. And his hollow, blank eyes went glassy.

It didn't matter, either, how much Reepicheep cuddled him now, no recognition or glimmer of hope or life could be brought back to his eyes. Edmund looked much older than he really was, like an ancient being with no more words no more memory, nothing else to live for, ready to die at any given moment.

There came a nippy, gray, silver-cloud-dotted morning when she could coax neither food nor drink to his lips, and he would not open his eyes. The only signs that he was still alive at all were his unsteady chest going up and down, and the little puffs of breath she could see coming from his nose; and, certainly, the continued coughing which had not let up in the least though Edmund was becoming weaker and weaker.

There was fresh snow falling from the sky, landing everywhere. Looking behind her, Lucy could see that it covered up all of their tracks so that she could not be sure how far they'd traveled.

Sadly, she climbed back to the front of the sleigh, reached for the leather reins, then effortlessly dropped them.

"What are you doing?" asked Reepicheep, confused.

"I can't go any further," she replied, giving up and climbing back to where Edmund and Ella laid. "I can't drive the sleigh anymore today, Reep, please don't try to press me to go on. No encouragement, not now. Please, just let me stay with him."

After gently kissing his lips twice, getting-as she fully expected-no reaction from him, shivering violently, she rested her own tired body on top of that of the former alethiometrist and wrapped her arms around his middle, letting her head lean on his chest. Reepicheep curled up into a little furry ball next to Ella.

The snow was falling heavier, thicker and colder. Lucy closed her eyes and made no effort to brush the flakes off of herself or Edmund, or their dæmons. Reep's fur was speedily dotted with white, as was Lucy's hair; and Edmund's, too. (Ella was far enough under the blankets that most of the snow did not land on her; only, since her feathers were white, it probably wouldn't have been noticeable at any rate.)

Through trembling lips, gone blue from the cold climate, what might have been as little as a few minutes later or as much as an hour, possibly more, Lucy, her tears no longer falling since she could not will her eyelids to open to the bleakness all around her, whispered, "Aslan, if you ever loved us…if you ever truly wanted us to stop this, if you believed we could do this…" –here her small, pale-sounding trickle of a voice broke slightly, choked by a suppressed sob. Recovering a very little, she added, "We, we need your help now…please, if you love us at all, show us the way out of this."

Just as Lucy was about to fall asleep where she laid, Reepicheep cracked an eyelid and saw something extraordinary. "Lucy!"

Her eyes opened, motivated by her dæmon's amazement and powerful curiosity, and she saw golden Dust floating among the snowflakes. It _was_ Dust, unmistakably, for it lit up brightly, making even the gleaming snow look darkish in comparison. It went from gold to silvery and gathered itself all together in the shape of albatross, its wings shinning whiter than the snow, only the very tips still shimmering of silver and gold.

"Oh, Reep!" Lucy said, believing with all her heart. "I'll get up now, and take the reins. We'll follow the albatross -the Dust, I mean."

She rode on and on, the Dust-albatross never out of sight. Twilight came; the sun setting turned white wilderness pink with pale purple shadows under the scattered fir trees.

Night followed evening. The sky was black and there was no moonlight, only starlight. And in the not-so-far-off distance, quivering like a long row of delicate ribbons, the dozens of rainbow colours in the northern lights came into sight.

"Lucy!" Reepicheep stood with his nose pointed towards the stars and the aurora. "Do you hear that?"

She heard a sound, beautiful and rich as a bugle, but she wasn't certain what it was; she almost fancied the northern lights themselves had sung. It wasn't impossible, she thought, there was something quite magical about them, so why shouldn't they have gotten a song of their own.

But it wasn't the lights after all, it was Aslan, coming towards Lucy and her mouse-dæmon.

Despite her joy and inability to really, honestly think of anything besides the Lion padding towards her -even Edmund forgotten for the time being- she sensed through Reepicheep that the Dust-albatross was gone and had been gone for a while now. It was when they'd been distracted by the northern lights that it had slipped away without notice. Only it didn't matter now, only Aslan did.

A smile so wide it made her partly chapped lips crack and drip a slim line of blood crossed Lucy's face as she beamed at the Lion. She was perfectly contented as it planted a lion's kiss on her forehead. Then he spoke, gravely, and her happiness burst.

"He is dying, Lucy," said the Lion, with tears in his beautiful tawny eyes so big and moist that they rivaled Lucy's own.

She hadn't the slightest idea what Aslan meant…until she saw he was looking down into the back of the sleigh; at Edmund.


	33. Going Home

"No!" Lucy cried out, semi-loudly, looking despairingly at Aslan. Her Edmund couldn't be _dying_ -he couldn't!

"I'm sorry," said Aslan, reaching out and placing a heavy paw on one of her shoulders. "He did not deserve this."

"Oh, Aslan," she whimpered, leaning her head to the side, daring to rest her cheek lightly on the back of his paw, which felt as though it were made entirely of glossy golden velvet, "can't you…I mean, please, couldn't you…" She swallowed and glanced down at Edmund as he started coughing hollowly again, before turning her attention back to the Lion. "Isn't there anything you can do for him?"

"Lucy," began the Lion.

"I love him," Lucy whispered brokenly.

"I know you do," said Aslan.

"He's an alethiometrist," she fumbled, franticly searching her brain for anything that would help, though she couldn't imagine how. "If he dies…the Ruling Powers…He has to stop them; he _has_ to."

She knew as long as Aslan willed it and backed them up-much as losing an alethiometrist would be a tragic blow as far as having someone who could read a truth measure near at hand-they'd likely still win without Edmund, but she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. They might not _need_ him; still, she _wanted_ him with her.

And Lucy herself _did_ need him; he was part of her, and if he died, she felt she couldn't go on, not even if Aslan asked her to, try as she might.

"I will do for him what I can," Aslan said after a pause that felt-to Lucy, at least-like it lasted for ever, and took his paw off of her shoulder, coming closer to the back of the sleigh. "Before anything else, he needs proper sleep; he can't sleep with all that coughing."

Lucy's face went very white. She was afraid. Yes, poor Edmund was exhausted, and of course she wanted what was best for him, only she was scared to death that if he stopped coughing and wheezing altogether (especially now, after all this traveling) and went to sleep for real, he wouldn't wake up again.

"Lucy," murmured Aslan's rich, soothing voice; "you must trust me, dear one." He spoke with a wondrous kindness Lucy had never heard in any other person or creature's voice before; but there was also the faintest hint of a growl, or reprimand, under it.

She nodded. "I do, Aslan." And she did, with all her heart; he was, after all, the very last-and most precious-thing she had left to believe in.

Aslan bent low and breathed on Edmund. A pitiful moan that made Lucy want to fling her arms around him came out of the former alethiometrist's chest, and she willed herself to stay still by grabbing hold of Reepicheep and pressing him tightly to her abdomen as if her dæmon was an anchor, holding her firmly in place against all odds.

The moan died away, and she thought her Edmund looked very peaceful as he slept. It looked, on the whole, like a healing sort of sleep; the very thing he needed and wanted most in the world.

Ella did not stir, and Reepicheep didn't have the heart to look for her where she rested close to her human; not right then.

"Lucy, come with me," Aslan ordered. "We will take a walk; there is much I need to tell you."

"Couldn't we talk here?" she all but begged in hopes of staying close to Edmund and watching over him.

Another low grow suggested itself and she sobered up. "I'm sorry, Aslan. Of course I'll come with you at once."

As they walked under the northern lights, Lucy watched, awestruck, as the many colours reflected off of Aslan's fur like the cheerful light of a fire's glow glinting off of a golden wedding band on a lady's finger as she sits knitting in the late evening.

"You will keep on fighting the Ruling Powers," the Lion told her. "I promise you won't have to do so alone."

Of course I won't be alone, thought Lucy, as long as you're helping me.

"But your brother will be going back to his own world tonight."

"And Susan?"

"She goes with him, of course. There is a little child in that world that needs them, and a set of grandparents who can't do it all on their own."

Lucy sighed. Aslan was right; but she would miss Peter and Susan dreadfully, and she was a little sorry that she wouldn't have them by her side as she went on fighting the Ruling Powers; this was rather too much at once.

"You may well sigh," Aslan said, not unkindly, "but this is how it must be."

"Could I ask…" Lucy began, shakily.

"Ask your question, dear heart."

"When will they come back to this world, Aslan?" Her eyes widened eagerly. "When will I see them again? Could it please be soon?"

"Dearest, once they have gone this time, they will never come back."

"Never?" she gasped, disbelievingly. "Aslan!"

"Peter belongs to that world," he explained sort of quietly, "and Susan has chosen to be with him; her part in all this-as far as her duty to _this_ world-is over. They are grown up, you know; and they have many responsibilities of a different sort in that other world. As far as it depends on them, they will help you still, for Digory Kirke and his dæmon can get a message to them if the need arises. That is one of the reasons he needed to stay there, as a consul between the worlds, for the true chasms and opportunities to cross grow rarer. When the professor dies, Susan-with her Maugrim-will become the next consul from this world in his place. They will not return here, but you must stay."

"I see," said Lucy, with fresh tears on her face.

"Come now." Aslan smiled at her. "Things will not always be so horrible for you. You'll find happiness again. Sooner, I think, than you imagine."

Something white came flying swiftly along the black sky, blue stars, and rainbow lights; it had wings, so it appeared to be some kind of bird.

Reepicheep realized first, the fur on the back of his neck prickling up on edge. "It's a dæmon!"

"It can't be…" Lucy's eyes widened as her dæmon's real meaning struck her and she recognized the owl.

"Hello, Lucy." The owl-dæmon landed on a lone branch sticking out from a snow-dusted pine-tree. "Reep."

"Oh, Ella!" gasped Lucy in a voice full of something like delighted surprise but much more intense and pure, a feeling that reached around her heart and embraced it tenderly.

Ella was no longer pet-like or stupid. Now she wore as intelligent an expression on her elegant face as ever before, and her great eyes sparkled, glowing as if she knew some wonderful, fascinating secret that Lucy and Reepicheep were not yet in on.

"Where is he?" Reepicheep turned his head this way and that, searching for Edmund, who was no where in sight. "I don't see her human."

Aslan grinned at them, shaking his mane. "Ella is not the same kind of dæmon she was before; in many ways she is as greatly altered from her former life as she was changed by the cruel operation at Bolvangar. The difference is, however, that this is as much as good as intercision was bad and wicked."

Lucy beamed, her whole face lit up as if candles of hope were burning inside of her, all at once too thrilled to speak. She wanted nothing more than to ask right away for the Lion tell her more about this 'change', and to explain about Edmund's current absence, how his dæmon could be so far from him. In spite of this, she remained silent.

If she had met Ella on her own after seeing poor Edmund so ill and near death, she would have been petrified. Meeting her with Aslan nearby, clearly pleased, having some sort of hand in the matter as likely as not, it wasn't half so scary. There was something deeper here. What was more, she knew he was going to explain it-if not presently, then surely soon enough at any rate.

"Edmund has been healed by my breathing on him," Aslan went on, "and the ties that connected him to Ella previously have not returned, but they have been created anew. Eleanor Glimfeather is like a star's dæmon, or a witch's; she can go as far from her human as she likes."

Although she didn't say so out loud, Lucy found herself wondering why Aslan-since he apparently could have-didn't just made Ella's link to her human the way it had been before.

Answering her unspoken question, "Things can never be the same way twice. An experience as traumatic and wrenching as Edmund and Ella suffered through at Bolvangar is not the sort that leaves no mark, no extreme change. I have only made it so that the change is not the sort that destroys; after all, he is part of the solution to all this evil. Who will understand better than him, now that he's been through all of this? And an alethiometrist who has a witch-like dæmon, one that can leave him and take messages and spy, is no small advantage to your side, Lucy. Did I not promise you wouldn't be alone?"

Wordlessly, Lucy kissed Aslan's nose. "Thank you," was all she could think to whisper, much as it felt inadequate in expressing her joy.

"There is one thing more you might like to know," his voice had the faintest hint of being, while not sad, certainly bordering on grave. "Lucy, after you defeat the Ruling Powers, the time will come when you will no longer be able to read the alethiometer by instinct. Having Edmund on hand, perhaps, if it is your wish, you may learn to read it again, the way he does."

Still overjoyed from knowing that Edmund was going to live, Lucy was not as struck by this blow as she would have otherwise been, but she still blinked rapidly, feeling rather stunned.

"Lyra…Will she lose her ability to read the alethiometer when we've defeated the Ruling Powers, too?"

"Dear one," said Aslan, patiently but with unwavering firmness, "do you really need to know that now? It concerns her and her story, not yours."

"Come, we will go to your alethiometrist now." Aslan began to walk back the way they'd come, and Lucy trotted by his side, burying her cool hands in his warm mane; Reepicheep rode on his mistress's shoulder.

When they reached the sleigh, they saw Edmund standing in front of it.

He was alone, but not for long. Within a minute Ella was flying back towards him, and his wrist was stretched out for her to land on.

Throwing her arms round his middle, Lucy clung to him.

Pulling away from her, Edmund lowered himself down on one knee. Ella flew off of his wrist, up onto his right shoulder.

"Lucy, you've been a perfect alethiometrist's assistant," he said in a low, endearing tone. "You even came and rescued me from Bolvangar."

"Edmund-" she began, not realizing yet what he was building up to.

Shaking his head, he cut her off, "But there is one problem."

"Problem?"

"I don't want you to just be my assistant in studying the alethiometer, I want you to be my wife."

Really, it had never been a question of either of them _wanting_ to marry each other, so much as it was the matter of so few opportunities. All the same, he had never flat-out asked her, and so he did; for his memories had all returned to him, including the lost moments at Bolvangar after the operation, during which he had been stupid and slow, and she had done the best she could to rescue him. Deeply as he had loved her before, there was something about her unyielding spirit in saving him that made him respect and admire her all the more so.

And Lucy, of course, said yes to his proposal.

Aslan roared: it was a calling roar.

At once, Lucy knew it would-and could-be answered, no matter now many miles stood in the way (even if it had been whole _worlds_ in-between); it was _that_ powerful. She also knew (Edmund did not) _whom_ the Lion had to be summoning, and felt a little sorry, because she was going to miss them so dreadfully.

Peter and Susan and Maugrim appeared by the sleigh. Peter looked taken aback; Susan and Maugrim were panting a little, like they were a bit short on breath from unwittingly-yet instantaneously-answering Aslan's call; but they said nothing to the great Lion, knowing somehow that he was the one who ought to speak first, that he'd called them there for a reason. They saw Edmund and Lucy but did not run to them (the moment was too solemn) glad as they were to see that they were safe, having been so worried about them.

Now that they had two witnesses, Aslan married the alethiometrist and the daughter of Lord Asriel right there on the spot. A few vows were exchanged and their dæmons stood close together, whispering something their humans only faintly over-heard through their connection, rather like a soft buzzing in the back of their minds.

When the little ceremony had come to an end, Aslan took Peter and Susan aside and told them what he had already explained to Lucy before. (It was Reepicheep who told Edmund, by the way.)

Teary-eyed, but still understanding, although less so in Susan and Maugrim's case as opposed to Peter's reaction, they went to bid goodbye to their siblings.

Susan took Lucy aside and they talked; and Peter and Edmund did the same. And so the brothers-in-law and the sisters-in-law said their farewells. It was very sad all around. The glances exchanged between Maugrim and Reepicheep were heartbreaking, full of the kind of deep emotion one only sees between close dæmons who do not expect to meet each other again. There is no need to dwell on those moments.

Then Edmund went to Susan; and Lucy to Peter.

Susan hugged her brother so tightly that he thought she was going to suffocate him, but he didn't really mind, because he was clinging to _her_ , too. Maugrim seemed wary of Ella, initially, sensing a change in her. The wolf-dæmon quickly over-came this, however, realizing that the change was not for the worse, and he nuzzled the soft white feathers on her left wing with the tip of his nose.

For a bit Peter and Lucy could say nothing at all. They were both choked up; the parting for them would be the hardest of all. It didn't matter that they weren't related by blood, they were the very closest sort of siblings that exist.

"Lucy," Peter said, holding onto both of his baby sister's hands while he spoke, "I have an idea."

"I'm sorry you're not coming back."

"It's not how I thought it would be," he told her. "It isn't so horrible. Aslan is right; we aren't really needed here anymore. I'm sure there's something important that Susan and I are supposed to do back in my world; and of course my son needs me-and his mother-back. The only thing that makes me sad is leaving you and Ed."

"What was your idea?" said Lucy through her tears.

"I was thinking about how some things-certain places and objects, rather-in the professor's college are almost exactly like Jordan." He looked very thoughtful. His eyes were bright, but whether it was with pensiveness, or else simply the same kind of tears as his sister was struggling with, was uncertain. "There's a north-facing window-seat in Digory Kirke's study that is parallel with the Master's at Jordan (you remember, the dark apple-wood-and-oak one, with the top that lifts up like a chest?); it even has the same engravings at the bottom, and the professor carved his name into both. I remember seeing both seats and thinking it odd, though I didn't say anything about it before. As they're in the same position and everything, I thought perhaps you could sit there, maybe one day a year, on the Jordan side, in this world; meanwhile I would sit on the other side, back in mine, and we'd in a sense be able to visit each other. At least, I'd know you were sitting on your end, thinking of me, and you would know you had an elder brother sitting on the other end, remembering you. I wouldn't be able to see you, nor you me; but we'd _know_. I was thinking that Jordan College will be out of your way, and of course you know I don't attend Digory's college, that I go to another university, but if we could try…" –he looked away from her, and she knew he was crying and needed a second to gather the rest of his thoughts. "We could try to be there, just that once, every year."

"It could be at noon," Lucy suggested, "right on the stroke of it."

Peter nodded. "At noon. On the anniversary of the day they brought you into my world and left you with us for eight years."

It was a good plan, and Lucy thought Peter very clever for coming up with all this, but it wouldn't be the same-she knew it wouldn't. Being with a friend in spirit wasn't the same thing as being with them for real. She wouldn't be able to reach out and squeeze his hand. He wouldn't be able to hug her if she were sad. They would, they knew instinctively, speak to each other, and know the other was telling them about their life now, only it wouldn't be the same as being able to have a real conversation; they couldn't _hear_ each other anymore than they could see.

Peter was thinking the same as she was, or else he knew what was on her mind from her expression. He told her to cheer up, that he still believed what he had told her long ago; there really might come a time when all the worlds were one. When they were in that place, when things were very different, he promised again, they would be able to see one another for real and there would be no reason to be sad any longer. For now, though, all they could have was the solemn promise that they would, without let-up, go to the window-seat in their respective worlds, just that once every year.

As he embraced her one last time, Lucy pushed up onto the tips of her toes so that her mouth was close to one of her brother's ears, "I'll be keeping my eyes out for you."

"And I for you," he softly assured her.

"I suppose that's it, then," Susan announced, her face pale with resigned sorrow, wholly welcoming her future and destiny, though it seemed to take something unexplainable that no one could pin-point away from her for ever after that.

Aslan once again opened the door in the northern lights and the husband and wife, and the wolf-dæmon, went through it.

Susan never looked back. And although he never mentioned it, Edmund always did feel-whenever he couldn't sleep at night and found himself thinking of the last time his sister was ever in their birth world-that he would very much have liked her to, and he wished she had.

Peter, for his part, _did_ look back; and Lucy and Edmund remembered long after the fact seeing a faint trace of rainbow colours shinning off of his cheeks which were cased with a frozen wetness from his tears shed with Lucy earlier that made them reflective.

"Come on, Lu," said Edmund to his wife after a bit, taking her hand. "They're gone, and we'll freeze if we stay out here longer than need be. Look! Aslan's restored the sleigh. Let's go home."

"Home?" she repeated, as if perplexed.

"Are you asking where it is?"

"No, Ed," she replied, "because I know where it is; it's where ever we're together. The flat was home, when it was the both of us…so was the Gyptian ship, when you arrived on it. Here could be home, only you're going to leave it-and so am I."

"Don't bring up that blasted flat," he teased her. Ella clanked her beak.

Reepicheep fake-scowled. "I loved our flat," Lucy insisted, grinning, squeezing the hand he still held.

Home may have been where ever the alethiometrist and his wife could be together safely, but they had to stay somewhere literal, which could get troublesome at times seeing as they were still wanted by the Ruling Powers. But that goes without saying; and the tale of how Alethiometrist Belacqua and his love who was once known as Lucy Pevensie, and her half sister, Lyra, finally over-threw their adversaries for good, thus living reasonably happily thereafter, enjoying freedom whenever time between their raids against certain persons and organizations that were still persecuting the Gyptians long after the Ruling Powers were vanquished permitted, isn't _this_ story. The important thing is that when they got to where they needed to be, Edmund began to teach Lucy all of the symbols of the alethiometer so that when her instinct failed her, she might still read it, never having to go without understanding her silver pocket watch.

It was exciting for Lucy and Reep, actually, those lessons. While they could be hard-going at times, moments when she thought she would never be able to remember all those different meanings, she enjoyed herself.

In fact, the alethiometry lessons were among the first things she told Peter about at noon, the following year; while visiting Jordan College.

As for Peter and Susan and Maugrim, they found themselves feeling quite wet the further in they walked from the door Aslan had opened for them. It took a minute or so for them to realize they'd begun to wade rather than walk, and for a few moments they felt themselves completely immersed in water. Then, with no spouts or bubbles to warn them, they were shooting upward. Peter grabbed onto Susan's waist, and Maugrim pressed himself as close as possible to the thigh of his mistress.

When they came to a stop, they stood breathlessly in the basin of the fountain back at Professor Kirke's college, shivering from the rush and the unexpectedly cool air that was hitting their backs; the water was dead calm, lapping gently against their calves, no longer trickling down from the top, no longer a portal into another world; and Maugrim was panting, shaking droplets from his fur as Susan shook some off of the tips of her soaked hair.

A few feet away, the professor himself sat in an iron-backed garden chair, smoking a pipe, reading an improving book. He wasn't careless; something about him, a frown line that was not from age alone, suggested he'd worried about them; also, his dæmon, perched on the back of his uncomfortable chair, looked anxious and gave her master away.

But when Digory spoke, it was gentle and in an off-handed tone. "Ah," he said, closing his book, "there you are. Welcome back."


	34. ALTERNATE ENDING

As for Peter and Susan's return to their home world: they found themselves suddenly surrounded by clear, fresh silvery-blue water, the level slowly rising the further they walked (eventually waded, as walking became impossible) beyond the door Aslan had opened for them.

Then they felt a rush and a pull upwards, till at last they stood, dripping and breathless, in the fountain on the campus grounds of Uncle Digory's College.

Mrs. Macready, who was sitting in one of those stiff, high-backed iron garden chairs, reading a crisp newspaper, looked over her shoulder at the wet figures standing with water up to their calves in the cool basin.

"Ah," she said as coolly as if they'd just strolled in through the front gate, having been invited to tea formally; "so you're returned." Folding the newspaper into three creases with a neatness that Susan couldn't help secretly admiring for its perfection, she added, "I'll tell the Master you've come."


End file.
